


Farewell Happy Fields

by Nyanoka



Category: Fire Emblem Heroes, Fire Emblem Series
Genre: Age Difference, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Complete, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Male My Unit | Kamui | Corrin, Male My Unit | Reflet | Robin, Male Summoner | Eclat | Kiran, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:07:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 140,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22230790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyanoka/pseuds/Nyanoka
Summary: Ultimately, growth requires practical experience rather than simply knowledge from books. Kiran finds that Zenith is not as idyllic as he would like it to be.
Relationships: Lucius/Summoner | Eclat | Kiran, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Kudos: 19





	1. Village Virus

**Author's Note:**

> According to my word processor's info, it has been little under a year (started on February 18, 2019) since I started this—not for any particularly deep reason, I just wanted some Lucius/M!Kiran content, and I hate how nondescript the FEH protagonist is (no, the manga doesn't count). Not to mention, it gave me an excuse to challenge myself with this piece and to wedge in some of my interests. Unfortunately, it ballooned from my initial planned 10k words or so into something much larger.
> 
> All chapters are also finished, and each update will be posted within seven to twelve days unless otherwise stated. The later chapters are rather long, so it will take me longer to edit each one before posting mayhap. Tags will be updated if needed.

There’s a certain Slant of light,  
Winter Afternoons –  
That oppresses, like the Heft  
Of Cathedral Tunes –

Heavenly Hurt, it gives us –  
We can find no scar,  
But internal difference –  
Where the Meanings, are –

— “258,” Emily Dickinson

Watersmeet was a drab little town in the near middle of nowhere; it was the kind of town where everyone knew almost everyone, and gossip proliferated like roaches on rotting garbage. It was the very definition of “podunk.” It was the kind of town that anyone with an ounce of rationality or logic would want to leave once the novelty of childhood wore off and once the realization of its simplicity settled in.

It was a pretty, if uninteresting, place, an amalgamation of every small-town cliché. The buildings could be described as typical, if somewhat on the small side, in appearance. The roads were well-kept—standard concrete grey, murky yellow paint, and crisp white lines—and sided by neatly trimmed grass and a scattering of trout lilies, black-eyed Susans, and depending on the season, dandelions (if the children hadn’t plucked them up in their revelry and rowdy games anyway).

Even the trees—a mix of yellow birch, sugar maple, and white oak—were average, not exceptionally tall or bizarrely short. Their trunks were thick, though not exceedingly old or scarred, and the bird’s nests, brown hovels upon browner bark, were securely tucked in-between the reliable, twisting branches and the swaying leaves.

The town was _quaint_ in every sense of the word, the kind of quaintness that often clung to its residents like mildew and never quite let go, even when they left and sometimes never returned. It went with those that left for university, giddy and hopeful, if somewhat anxious for the future, it went with those that traveled from town to town and to city to city, carrying sales pitches and other commodities, and it left with the vacationers, eyes alight with excitement and wonder for their next destination.

It left with everyone and never quite let go.

The essence of Watersmeet lingered in the accents of those that left, their attires, either overly showy, as if compensating for some perceived or imagined shortcoming, or too modest by popular standards; it was a microcosm of Watersmeet and its traditions.

Though as dull as some people found it, they could not say they were lacking in the basic necessities.

The town had a grocery store, anchored to the corner of Second Street and whose advertising consisted solely of word-of-mouth and a few posters, with neat slightly slanting cursive, taped crookedly to the storefront's windows. It was a homely sort of store that sold local produce—bottled honey and crisp apples and fresh milk among other commodities—and handicrafts. It was the kind that most would simply only see as a rest stop, an in-between between start and destination, on a long road trip rather than as a longstanding facet of some other person’s existence.

Three streets over, there was a community bank that opened precisely at 9 a.m. and closed at 5 p.m. on Tuesdays to Saturdays—closing entirely on Mondays and Sundays and various, assorted holidays—and four buildings to the left of it was the local gas station. It was a fairly tiny place even by Watersmeet’s standards, more of a prerequisite of modern living than any natural, welcomed landmark of the town, with six garishly painted gas pumps that stood beneath a shiny red canopy emblazoned with the gas company’s name in white block lettering.

It was the kind of town where the most exciting and beloved establishment was the public library rather than a shopping center or a drive-in theater. Though, that was, in part, because they had neither. Instead, they had few modest boutiques—window displays bearing primarily floral patterns—here and there, a few scruffy, though no less friendly, diners and some family-owned restaurants elsewhere, and so forth.

On films themselves, they (if one wanted to see them on a theater screen) were often considered a luxury, something to be saved for special occasions, such as birthdays or family get-togethers, rather than as a regular affair. Though, that was unsurprising if one considered the fact that the closest theater was an hour away, and public transit required one to jam one’s self into a tightly crammed bus and engage with other people, willingly or not.

All-around, it was a hassle for many of the town’s residents, most of whom did not have access to private motorized transportation, too expensive to maintain in such a town where most necessities and locations could be reached on foot, by bike, or through a neighbor’s favor.

Watersmeet was a town reluctant to change in some respects, and as a result, it was a contradiction that defied both modernity and practicality and almost solely adhered to legacy.

Returning to the library, the building, longstanding (and arguably the oldest site in town), was a source of pride for Watersmeet’s residents; it was a location that everyone invested into to, whether it was time, donations, or even just the occasional, dusty box of books found in the attic.

It was the kind of town where one’s everyday excitement was found in either one’s routine or in the breaking of such.

For example, the most excitement that they had was when Nixon had passed through a few years back, eager and hot on the heels of a potential campaign victory.

It was the kind of place that was more representative of the average white picket fence dream than anything else. Safe, serene, yet wholly forgettable to the outside world.

It was picturesque in a way that was delightful to anyone who hadn’t been immersed in its normality since birth.

Thus, it was quite unsurprising that Kiran hated Watersmeet with a near-unrivaled passion. But, he hated the fact that he could not leave much more.

Five-and-twenty years of age and Kiran had not amounted to anything he would consider worthwhile in his life nor had he left Watersmeet for any substantial and meaningful period of time. The longest he had stayed outside of his town was about a month, and even then, that particular month, a particularly balmy April, had been spent mostly in a hospital watching cars—blurs of ruddy red, shining silvers, and brash blues and blaring horns—pass by on the streets below his room’s window.

Health complications, bland hospital food, and rising medical bills were all he had gotten from that particular experience, nothing worldly or worthwhile in Kiran’s opinion.

Perhaps, it was because of youth and folly, an unfortunate draw of genetics, or simply a mixture of both, but Kiran had been blessed with a poor body and poorer luck. Injury and illness, whether it was something as simple as the common cold or as harmful as a lower respiratory infection, tended to follow him wherever he went, like a particularly persistent and eager dog hungry for treats.

Thus, in his younger years, he’d frequently spent his after-school afternoons reading borrowed library books until his room dimmed into dusk—the stars outside his bedroom window blinking a friendly greeting with their brilliance—and his mother called for bedtime. Of course, he’d often continue reading anyway, waiting until his parents retired to their shared room before beginning again with the help of a flashlight and the spark of stars. To the tune of fawning frogs and with the company of the low-hanging moon’s gleam, Kiran often read until the small hours of the morning.

Of course, his penchant for reading was further aided by his parents in his even more minuscule years. Before he could capably grasp at and understand the words that dotted and slid along the pages, his mother and father read to him—lullabies in the dark of the world.

His favorites—ones that he reread with notable regularity—were often of fantastical nature. _Lord of the Rings_ and _The Chronicles of Narnia_ , with preference for _Prince Caspian_ , were all adored affairs for him. It wasn’t necessarily “highbrow” reading for some, but it was in these fantastical worlds and notions that he found solace in.

Often, Kiran found himself wishing that he lived in such a world, filled with wonder and adventure, rather than predictable life in dull Watersmeet. It was simply easier to imagine himself as someone important, as someone others relied on, and as someone who could control reality with magic and enchantments rather than his genuine state: a sickly boy with little social grace.

It was simpler to imagine himself as healthy and happy.

Furthermore, he often didn’t have the stamina needed for any task more strenuous than a light jog which further restricted the activities in which he pursued.

When the weather changed from spring’s shy kiss to summer’s cordial embrace, he had not ridden bikes, weaving in between mailboxes and trash bins in makeshift racecourses, or played make-believe with gallant, kindly knights and devious dragons and distressed damsels with his neighbors.

He had often decline their invitations to play and their offers to let him be the damsel, the ailing prince in peril. His parents never pushed him much towards socialization either, too used to Kiran’s behavior and penchant for solitude.

Instead, he, alongside his readings, spent his afternoons learning various crafts, writing and painting with whatever supplies his allowance allowed him. His early works were not naturally pleasing, too crude and with the clumsy markings of a novice, but he had kept practicing until the colors blended and flowed into familiar scenes—the local farm, the idyllic forests surrounding town, and so forth—and his words melded together euphoniously.

Life ambled forward until he graduated from high school alongside his peers. Some moved onward, outside of Watersmeet and its novelties and to university, others married and settled down into town or nearby, and others still simply just traveled. Though, Kiran did not keep track of their specific whereabouts for the most part; he was never particularly close with any of them.

Kiran fell roughly on the side of things compared to his peers. He had continued onto a (relatively) local college six hours away as an on-campus resident, and three weeks in, he had merely—quit, dropped out, for lack of better word. He cited complication—the college was six hours away, and prices were too astronomical for his tastes. It would have been a strain on him to continue, even with his parent’s assistance.

And thus, he, at the age of nineteen, had returned to Watersmeet once more.

Here, he tried his hand at publishing. He had attempted to send his pieces—a variety of watercolor landscapes, oil portraits, and written manuscripts— to various magazines, some specialized and others more informal, and even to newspapers in the case of his more serial writings.

He was ignored more often than not, no rejection letters but simply silence in most cases.

At twenty-one years of age, Kiran was not an acclaimed artist like Van Gogh, a well-known writer like Kafka, or even merely a student working on his degree.

He was simply a man who had accomplished nothing of importance in his short existence.

* * *

For the next four years then, he lived with his parents and worked at the local grocery store. On Mondays to Thursdays, he clocked in at 10 a.m. sharply and left at 5 p.m. Afterwards, he would visit the library and stay for a few hours, until the sun dipped slightly below the horizon and the streetlamps chimed to life. When it came time to leave, Kiran checked out whatever he had not finished, packed them neatly into his messenger bag, and left for home.

On Fridays and Saturdays, he mostly meandered around town or holed up in the library once more. There was no point in visiting any of his old classmates—the ones that still remained in town anyway. Kiran had never been close enough to any of them to simply just “drop by” for a chat; he doubted that they would want to speak to him unless it was necessary.

And on the Sabbath, he painted and wrote—little articles and charming advertisements. Some went to the resident newspaper or to a local establishment, and others were sent to some far-off magazine as a submission (though they were never published), but most—falling below his own standards—were packed into cardboard boxes in the attic or torn to shreds and then tossed into the wastebasket.

He never went to church when his mother invited him either; he had not gone in years, a decade or so perhaps.

It was a monotonous existence in some respects.

Though, Kiran did not particularly mind too much about his work in the grocery store. The owner, a middle-aged woman named Mrs. Davis, had hired him after her son had been called out a few years back. She paid him well enough. Often, she slipped him some extra perks—mostly extra fruits, a few snacks, and a carton of milk—in a plastic bag every other Monday, restocking day.

He thought he did well enough, so it was a surprise when she flipped the store’s “Open” sign to “Closed” and called him into the backroom to talk.

His turtleneck felt a bit scratchy as he stood under her serious gaze. It was a bit unnerving really, and he was almost tempted to rub the cloth of his store apron between his fingers—a nervous habit. She was normally a very cheerful woman, though that had dulled somewhat since her son’s departure. He frequently found her rereading his letters and watching the news on a tiny television in the backroom during the store’s off-hours.

She spoke first. “Have you’ve considered going back to college?”

The hidden meaning of her question was clear.

“I haven’t. It’s not for me,” he answered earnestly,” I got a high number though. I doubt they’ll call me up in time.”

Inwardly, he felt a twinge of disappointment and bitterness at that; he had wanted to be called, to be sent there—for glory and for honor. Though, he did not show it; he knew Mrs. Davis’s opinion on that particular matter. In fact, his own opinion had grown increasingly rare among the general populace; the broadcasts and the increasing number of protests had guaranteed that.

He had gotten notices before of course; his age made it unlikely that he would not have had any at this point. But, something always came up: a surgery, an extended hospital stay, and so forth (though never anything that would disqualify him). He always seemed to miss it. Some would consider it enormously lucky, Fortuna’s favor, but Kiran did not.

He wanted to go.

Her frown deepened before she sighed. To Kiran, she seemed much older then. The creases around her eyes were apparent.

“We don’t know when it’ll end or how many will be called up this year." She breathed deeply then. “You need to be careful. Even a high number doesn’t mean you won’t be sent eventually.”

They remained in silence there for a few tense, uncomfortable moments before Mrs. Davis spoke again.

“That’s all I wanted to say. You can get back to work now. Just flip the sign on your way out.”

He did not scramble out (though he wanted to). He merely walked out, in what he hoped, was an impression of ease, of confidence, or at least normality.

Kiran was fine with confrontation, but he had never been quite good with disappointment.

The rest of his shift went fairly well by his standards, not too many customers but not too little as to leave him idle.

Like any other workday, Kiran still left at five o’clock. His sneakers squeaked with each step he took towards the library and further away from Mrs. Davis.

Located near the town hall and across from the church, it was a relatively large building, three stories high and constructed from sturdy red brick and timber, with glass-paned windows and heavy mahogany double doors that rumbled loudly like a hearty man's laugh whenever they closed. Circling the brass door handles and carved skillfully into the wood were images of grapevines, blooming flora, and running deer.

As a child, Kiran had often run his fingers over the carvings. It had been a preoccupation of his to do so every time he visited. To his best knowledge, it had not held any greater meaning; it was simply a strangeness of childhood, a child’s continued fixation and lucky ritual.

Now as an adult, he could not help but stroke one of the deer’s antlers—a comforting habit—before placing his hand on the brass that they surrounded.

Clasping the door handle, Kiran gave a pull—digging his heels into the ground and with some effort—the door swung open.

The first floor was mostly empty outside of a few stragglers and the librarian. Most children were still on winter break. Furthermore, the first floor was reserved for historical materials, medical books, and encyclopedias; most children would not have been interested in that. If there were any present, they would have congregated to the second floor, where the children’s books were shelved and where the playroom was located.

The librarian was a dainty sort of woman with large framed glasses, mousy brown hair done into a pageboy cut, and a preference for wool cardigans and button-ups. A shiny name tag engraved with “Carol” was pinned to her bosom.

Her voice was mild, the kind that one heard once in passing in the chatter of a crowded subway and then immediately forgot after departing.

Though this time, she did not pay him much attention—neither a greeting nor even a grunt of acknowledgment—when he walked up to the front desk. Instead, she was preoccupied with fiddling with the radio, its soft static somewhat jarring in the library’s near-silence.

She had been a much chattier woman before everything had begun.

With his books in hand (having been retrieved from his bag), Kiran rapped his knuckles against the wood and placed them on the desk before moving on. The librarian only continued her fiddling, too intent on finding a decent station, and her mumbling.

That was the sort of atmosphere to be expected lately.

He made his way to the third floor—his hand brushing lightly against the circling burgundy brown guardrail of the spiral staircase—and to the fiction and poetry section.

The third floor was organized similarly to the others. A pair of square tables and a quartet of chairs sat on a cow skin carpet in the corner next to the covered windows. In between the towering oak shelves and extending towards the other end of the room was a runner rug, threadbare from years of being stepped on. Though unlike the first floor, it was devoid of people.

He meandered between the shelves before finally settling on a section near the end. His fingers caressed the spines of the texts as he thumbed each book, pulling them out to glance at the back covers before pushing them back in disinterest or familiarity.

It took him a few minutes—moving between works such as _Editha_ to _Don Quixote_ to _Notes from Underground_ —before he noticed a strangely nondescript book in the corner of the bottom shelf. His eyes would have simply skimmed over it if he had not noticed that its neighbor, written by an author whose last name began with “C,” was horribly misplaced.

He had frequented this library for years, and in this section in particular, and he had never seen the volume before.

Perhaps it was a new addition?

Kneeling down, Kiran, his curiosity piqued, gave it a cursory glance.

The tome—it could not have been described any other way without understating its appearance and weight— was wedged deeply between the wood of the shelf and its neighbor. The spine was bare of an author and even a title. Rather, lines of white gold ran from the head and dripped downward, over the hubs, towards the tail. Like winter’s first snowfall, spots of olive green peeked out from underneath the white.

Taking care not to damage it or its neighbor, Kiran jimmied the volume several times before it dislodged itself. Pressing it to his chest, Kiran made his way to one of the tables, pulled out a chair, and sat down to examine his find.

Like the backbone, the case was barren of both a title and author; a passing look through the first few pages only turned up flyleaf. Though unlike the spine, the cover lacked any sort of discernible feature outside of coloration and texture.

Though, the texture itself seemed particularly unusual to Kiran. While the leather appeared scaly, its actual feel was quite different. It felt smooth, quite unlike the roughness that Kiran had expected.

The scales themselves were relatively large, each about the size of an American dollar coin, and interlaced tightly together. They held a dull shine to them, like stars on a foggy night.

Snakeskin perhaps? Maybe python? Kiran had never seen one before outside of newspapers and television, but he knew that they could grow to monstrous proportions. At the very least, he was fairly certain the binding wasn’t taken from a common garter snake.

Furthermore, the tome, despite the luxuriousness that its binding would indicate, was in excellent shape. The craftsmanship suggested a much older age than what the condition would imply.

Additionally, it was quite unlike what he would expect to find in Watersmeet. Most book donations were old, near-forgotten things, often with crinkling yellowing pages or loose binding.

While the town’s inhabitants valued their library, most would be unable to afford the materials and tools needed for such bookbinding. Additionally, the skill required would have been substantial.

It was a bit of an oddity.

He contemplated the tome for a few more moments before he finally decided to begin reading. There was not much point in further speculating on its origins or details. Kiran was neither someone who specialized in these sorts of things nor was he an amateur with a passing interest; any further guesswork would simply waste time and be mere facetious conjecture.

Kiran opened the volume and flipped through the pages until he reached one filled with words. To his surprise, the words were readable, both in the sense of linguistics and in clarity. The calligraphy was in standard black ink and exceedingly neat and even. None of the words drifted or staggered.

Kiran would have assumed the words had been written with a typewriter if it weren’t for the character of the letters. The Rs held a slight curl to them, looping in on themselves and then outwards, the I's had a slight slant to them and a curling tail, and so forth. Every letter was written in a way that suggested a human hand rather than a machine.

He took a few more moments to marvel at the script before he finally began.

_“In the days of King Cornelius Lowell, a tragedy befell and tore Archanea asunder—violent, vengeful, and swift…”_

The vellum felt smooth under his fingertips as Kiran eagerly flipped the pages. It was easy to immerse himself into the work despite the verbosity of its descriptions. In fact, he was the type of person who preferred verbosity to brevity.

With growing enjoyment, he continued reading—learning about the war that plagued the continent, the various kingdoms and their alliances—until he reached the introduction of the king’s son. Here, he stopped and frowned.

_“King Lowell’s son—a lad of sixteen winters— was a kind, dutiful man christened with the name...”_

The place where the son’s name should have been was smudged, entirely unreadable. While one blemish would have been fine, every other mention of his name on the page seemed to have met the same fate. In each place where his name should have appeared, a dark blemish lay in its place.

For KiranI, it was a bit of a disappointment that he could not learn the prince’s name, but it could have been much worse in his opinion. The tome could have been entirely unreadable. And so, he persevered. With each page he read, the prince’s name continued to be blurred with what increasingly seemed to be sabotage.

Thus, it came as both a shock and disappointment when King Lowell died, and the prince took reign of the narrative. Kiran had liked the king’s character. He had been stern and full of gumption but also fair. The prince wasn’t a bad character—Kiran rather admired his softhearted yet determined personality— but the stains were an annoyance to see. They made it harder for him to immerse himself into the story.

It became an even bigger annoyance when Kiran found that the prince was not the only victim of sabotage. As he read further, more names bore the same smudges, though to a lesser extent.

_“The princess, a fair lady by the name of C_ ⬛ _ed_ ⬛ _, welcomed him with open arms.”_

At least, the letters of their names still held some legibility.

Kiran was unsure of what pattern the smudges followed. Some names, such as Elice and Frey, were left intact, but others, like C⬛ed⬛ and Ja⬛en, were not.

It was a bit difficult to read once more characters appeared, and the fragmented names became more common, but he eventually became accustomed to it.

In the solitude of the room, Kiran read—followed the prince on his journey across the Samsooth Mountains and pass the bandit encampments with his ever-growing army. It was exciting to read about; it was the sort of tale that Kiran craved to both read and be a part of.

The prince himself was amiable, almost kind to a fault, but resolute as steel and noble as any real, historical king. He was the definition of a Prince Charming at an outward glance. But, his struggles with vengeance and dignity were what fascinated Kiran the most. The fantasy of a virtuous prince—held up as both a lord and a commander—and who was completely untouchable yet entirely too human drew Kiran in.

Despite his current anonymity, the prince was the kind of person who Kiran wanted to be close to.

Kiran only stopped reading when the library’s closing bell rang, startling him. With a bit of reluctance, Kiran retrieved a bookmark from his messenger bag and wedged it into the tome. Grabbing it, he made his way back to the first floor and to the circulation desk.

Unlike earlier, the floor was devoid of patrons. Kiran wasn’t surprised. It was a bit late; most library clientele often filed out about thirty minutes before the bell. It was a courtesy thing for Mrs. Carol so she would not need to wait for or help patrons pass hours.

Placing the tome on the desk, Kiran turned to the inside of the back cover and to his surprise, there was no borrowing card, not even a card pocket for one.

He opened his mouth to call to Mrs. Carol before abruptly closed his mouth. The woman in question was still fiddling with her radio and mumbling, too distracted to notice Kiran’s presence.

While he could call to her, that would mean that the tome would leave his possession because it would need to be filed into a queue for cataloging. It most likely was not a library book at this point (the binding and the lack of a card assured that). Furthermore, if it turned out to be a rare text or anything of that sort, borrowing it would become a major hassle.

Kiran did not want to wait that long to read.

To Kiran, taking the book with him now was no technically stealing if he would return it later. On the incredibly slim chance that the tome was actually library property, he could always say that it was an accident—that it was late and in a sleepy haze, he had pocketed the book unknowingly.

With that thought process in mind, Kiran slipped the book into his bag, made his way to the door, and exited.

On the way to his house, Kiran had to readjust his bag regularly; the tome was heavy. and it strained again the cloth. At times, Kiran feared that his bag’s shoulder strap would snap from the added weight of his new acquisition.

The walk was not long, roughly ten minutes if the sidewalks were uncrowded.

Reaching his home’s door, Kiran pulled a bronze key from his pants’ pocket, slipped It into the keyhole, and turned. The door’s lock released with a click, and after re-pocketing his key, Kiran turned the knob.

The house was quiet save for the hum of the ceiling fan. After undoing the knots on his shoes and placing them on the shoe rack, Kiran walked towards his room—the noise of his footsteps muffled on each wooden board and stairstep by his socks.

His door closed with a quiet clunk, and the lock turned even softer. Though, it was more of a force of habit than anything else; Kiran knew his parents would not bother him, not with their current relationship.

Ever since his return from university, Kiran’s relationship with his parents had become strained, soured in some respects. He had not wanted to burden his parents—he had said so. But, his parents, in particular his father, had thought otherwise. They had urged him to return to university, and he had refused every time from a sense of obligation.

Eventually, his relationship with them had chilled, loosened from the tautness one expected from family. They all still had breakfast together and lived together, but it was a sort of formality at this point really.

On the days that they did not eat together, Kiran would cook his own meal.

It hurt sometimes, but Kiran did not mind all too much.

After flipping the light switch and taking the book out, he carelessly swung his bag onto a nearby chair and plopped stomach-down on his bed.

He did not have work tomorrow, so he could afford a few less hours of daylight.

Kiran read until the crack of dawn. He had not meant to of course; he had only wanted to read for a few extra hours, perhaps until two or slightly pass. But, the book had been enthralling. Perhaps a bit fairy tale-esque and idealistic but still enthralling, nonetheless.

He had followed the prince to Macedon by this point. It had been roughly around seven hundred pages at this point, give or take; the volume’s pages were unnumbered so it was difficult to make an accurate judgement. Though, seven hundred pages did not even seem to dent the book’s size; it seemed just as huge as when he found it.

Over the course of his weekend, Kiran read in his room, only coming out to take his meals. Around 6 a.m. on Sabbath night, he finally finished the prince’s tale. It was with a bit of reluctance that he did so. The prince had not initially been his favorite—he having preferred the father instead—but his opinion had changed tremendously over the course of the story.

Though, there were still many pages left. He wondered what other stories there were left to tell about the prince and his companions. Perhaps an elaboration on the epilogue? It had left him a bit displeased in how brief it was in comparison to the rest of the tale.

Flipping the next few pages, Kiran was disappointed with what he found—an entirely new story with an unfamiliar cast. So, the book was an anthology of stories?

Though a bit disappointed, Kiran continued reading. At least, the story seemed to take place in the same world as the prince’s tale.

_“To the west of Archanea lies Valentia—home of the warring sister nations Rigel and Zofia...”_

At first, it was a bit obnoxious to memorize new names, especially since the smudging seemed just as prevalent and arbitrary as in the last tale. It was also a bit difficult to keep track of the two separate armies with how the point of view seemed to change between the two leads every chapter.

He does not hate or like them less for it. It was interesting to see how they differed, but he does miss the characters from the previous story. Recency bias as it were.

As a result, Kiran felt a thrill when he saw that the Whitewing Sisters had returned.

It took him roughly three days, reading during breaks and right after work until the devil’s hour, to finish. It was a bit tiring to keep up that sort of schedule, but Kiran thought it was worth it to keep reading.

It is a bittersweet sort of affair when he noticed that the next story returned to Archanea. He missed the prince of course, but Valentia’s leads had grown on him.

Though it seemed that the next story followed a knight rather than the prince.

_“Here—truthfully recorded—is a tale of loyalty, of a forgotten knight and his beloved prince...”_

Kiran found Kris to be somewhat of an odd fellow, strangely steadfast in his devotion. He did not necessarily dislike him, but rather, there seemed to be something more to his loyalty, though it was never outright stated or elaborated on.

Though, the tale seemed to follow the traditional ideals of knighthood, noble birth and all, so Kiran paid it no real further mind.

Like the previous tale, he finished his reading in three days, and it was with the same reluctance that he moved onto the next one and the one thereafter and so forth.

_“In the land of Jugdral, exists thirteen bloodlines—those of the Crusaders and that of Loptous...”_

_“After the death of Q_ ⬛⬛ _n and_ ⬛ _th_ ⬛ _y_ ⬛ _, Prince L_ ⬛ _if hid among the common people...”_

Perhaps, he was just a simple and easily pleased sort, but Kiran found that he enjoyed each tale near-equally. There were surprises of course, such as the incest—though perhaps he should have had expected that; it is a medieval fantasy after all—or characters he disliked, but overall, he found that he could not criticize them entirely.

They were fanciful stories—like the first breath of winter—and those were the ones Kiran enjoyed best.

_“A millennium ago, man lived peacefully with dragonkin until…”_

_“On the plains of Sacae, a woman stood, stout and steadfast…”_

Elibe was a bit odd for Kiran to go through, a bit morbid as well, and that was, in part, due to the ordering. Reading with the knowledge of what would happen to everyone was not an experience that he particularly enjoyed. Instead, it simply made everything feel bittersweet.

In Kiran’s opinion, there was not much pleasure in reading about characters that you knew were going to die.

Tragedy that one expected was quite different from one that was not.

The rest of the book took most of January and early February to read, some stories taking longer and others less.

Though, some inspired a noticeable amount of confusion, such as with the tale set in Ylisse.

It was not the premise that caused confusion for Kiran but rather, the tactician. On the tactician, it seemed as if the scribe could not decide on their gender. On some occasions, they were referred to as female and in others as male, a pendulum constantly in flux between Venus and Mars. This further extended to their name. Sometimes they were referred to as R⬛⬛in and other times, they were known as Ref⬛⬛t.

It had been a pain to decipher the text.

The only constant trait that the writer seemed capable of consistently deciding was the length of their hair—short, white, and layered—and their hooded overcoat.

It had become increasingly confusing when the tactician married the priest, and their child appeared. Like the tactician, their genders and names were not set, moving between M⬛⬛gan and M⬛rc—waves ebbing on the shore of night and day and between the moon and sun.

It was like the author had combined two versions, both slightly differing yet with the same core, into one text.

The tale, or rather, the set of three, that came afterward were much less confusing. Though, they were much longer cumulatively and told three different versions of the same story. It was not as difficult to discern between the prince and the princess because they were relegated to their own versions—Nohr for the prince and Hoshido for the princess—rather than blended together.

Though, he wasn’t particularly fond of the third version. Simply put, what was the point of loss if it was capable of being undone? What was the point of reading about Nohr’s and Hoshido’s struggles if everything could be solved in what was obviously the “definite” version?

What was the point of the Nohrian prince finding love if he was simply going to end up with someone else in the third version? Not to mention the affair of the Hoshidan princess’s entire existence.

Loss was part of what made a good tale.

It was an unpleasurable finale in Kiran’s opinion, lacking in both intrigue and catharsis and full of reworked thoughts.

On an early Sabbath evening in his room, he finishes reading.

But still, there is a sense of emptiness after he finishes, and he finds himself reluctant to return the book. It had been a lovely break from routine, and Kiran finds himself already wanting to reread it once more.

Furthermore, he had visited the library during his month of obsessive reading, and Mrs. Carol had not once asked about it, and he had read it in front of her, six feet away at a table near her desk.

Granted, he had not asked her about it in the first place and thus, she could have been simply unaware of its vanished state. It was a bit of a conundrum. It had been easier to justify taking it when curiosity and impatience drove him, but now, it is much less so.

Thus, Kiran, book tucked safely into his bag, finds himself walking towards the library. It is a bit late, roughly half pass eight, but the library is not a long walk, and it would not close for another half-hour.

It is a short, easy walk, one that he had memorized from years of taking.

Loss in his thoughts, Kiran does not notice the pallid light when it surrounds him.


	2. John and Mary Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ultimately, growth requires practical experience rather than simply knowledge from books. Kiran finds that Zenith is not as idyllic as he would like it to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I read, I prefer when the author lets me draw my own conclusions through how the work is written and constructed rather than writing in a straightforward way—telling me what to believe essentially. If you prefer to read in this way, please avoid the ending chapter notes for this chapter and upcoming chapters. I will be giving partial information there on why the work is written as it is and some background information on the work's setting.
> 
> Chapter title is based on "Happy Endings" by Margaret Atwood, and the previous chapter's is from Main Street by Sinclair Lewis.

That holy dream—that holy dream,

While all the world were chiding,

Hath cheered me as a lovely beam

A lonely spirit guiding.

— “A Dream,” Edgar Allan Poe

The idea of heroism is childhood’s daydream, the beguiling mist on a long-winding path.

Kiran has imagined scenarios like this before, of situations where he is transported to other, more fantastical, worlds and where he becomes a hero. Perhaps he unlocks some innate magic hidden within his bloodline or simply learns to take up the sword and shield. Whatever the premise, he is always someone _more_ , someone _important_.

What he does not imagine, however, is face-planting into the dusty earth—light fading—and the clang of metal as an axe halts a sword mere inches from his face. If its wielder had been any slower, he would most likely be a ringer of the Hessian, albeit without the horse or the Jack-o’-lantern.

It is a chilling thought yet oddly _exhilarating_.

He does not have much more time to consider more when an object is thrown in front of him and a woman’s harried voice resounds in the clearing alongside the sounds of skirmishing.

“Use it!”

It is a bit curt, but Kiran supposes he should not ask for too much considering the woman’s current situation, deadlocked after pushing her opponent further away from him, and the surrounding area—fighting abound, silver and gray fluttering as easily as dandelion seeds set adrift.

He grabs it, and his fingers slide onto a familiar yet entirely unfamiliar trigger. It is something that he has seen numerous times on the television and in the hands of the occasional deer hunter passing through town. To his surprise, the grip fits perfectly in his gloved hands.

There is not much else to do but point it towards the woman’s current partner and pull. His grip is shaky, not at all like he had imagined or wanted it to be; it is less like Oakley’s self-control and more like a child’s.

To his (and everyone else’s) greater surprise, it is not a bullet that comes out, but a flash of warm light and a man dressed in elegant blues and a silver-strung bow. Without hesitation and with a flourish that spoke to years of practice, he simply nocks an arrow, draws, and releases.

There are no questions asked, but there should not be.

Unlike the man’s mannerisms or manner of dress, there is not much elegance in how the arrow lodges itself into the swordsman’s skull—between the hard, protective metal of his helmet and into the soft curving, flesh of his cheek. Certainly, there is skill involved, but it lacks the applause—the show—as it were.

Instead, it is surprisingly simplistic, like hooking a fish.

Perhaps Kiran is still simply dazed from his fall, but the next few moments pass in a near blur.

In his moment of weakness, the woman kicks forward, her foot slamming into her opponent’s abdomen and knocking him down. There is no pause as she then plants her foot onto his chest, stopping the majority of his panicked flailing. Whether it is from the pain from the arrow or a feeble attempt to escape, he keeps moving, his hands grasping at her boot and his feet kicking at air.

She swings her axe—white clean and glinting—downward in a practiced arc, and it ends as quickly as the deadlock had begun.

Kiran is not close enough to further see any of the grislier details. Furthermore, the man had positioned himself in front of Kiran, blocking the majority of his view. His hands had not stop nocking and releasing since his appearance. Rather, the speed of his actions had gotten quicker. His arrows fly precisely and swiftly, deterring any further advance by enemy soldiers.

Idly, Kiran notes that his quiver is near empty. Perhaps, half a dozen or less left.

Fortunately, the battle does not last much longer. Kiran hears the roar of a horn before the echoes of footsteps and clanging metal—a retreat—resound through the clearing and the surrounding area.

His archer does not stop firing until the last of the stragglers disappear into the trees.

* * *

“Sorry for the rough introduction, but we didn’t have much choice in the matter.”

The woman’s voice, lightly accented, is cheery despite their previous situation.

She is pretty by all accounts, curly red hair tied into a tidy ponytail, reddish brown eyes, and a lovely figure. Her armor is primarily white in coloration with accents of gold and blue and a hint of burgundy on her brown boots.

She continues, “I hope you didn’t mind too much, oh Great Hero from another world!” There is a slight emphasis when she pronounces “Hero,” overly theatrical, but Kiran does not mind too much.

“Our world is on the brink of ruin, and you are our only hope!” She squints at him a bit after that.

“Though, you don’t really seem like the Great Hero.” Her sentence is mumbled, as if a bit disappointed by his appearance.

Kiran would have argued with her if he had not agreed. He is not particularly noteworthy when it comes to his appearance. He is a bit below average in height at five feet and four inches tall and of a healthy weight for someone of his stature. His hair is straight, plain dusky black, and trimmed short, a bit below the ears. His eye color is not much either, being an average blue. It could not be described as “deep as the sea” or anything as fanciful (or cliché if one prefers) either. The most one could say was that his eyes were the color of a murky puddle. Consequently, it is unsurprising that he kept his bangs a bit longer than the norm for men, letting the strands fall and enshroud.

He is not much to look at honestly, neither a James Dean nor a Marlon Brando and not unusually repulsive enough to draw eyes.

He is average.

She continues anyway, without pause. She explains the conflict between Embla and Askr, Zenith, and his apparent role in it.

Great Hero and Summoner. There is an excitement that runs through him when he hears her say it.

“—and Breidablik, that’s the thing you’re holding.” She gives a nod to the object in Kiran’s lap. “It’s a relic we retrieved from Vaskrheim—that’s actually part of why we were so shorthanded today. Alfonse and Sharena—you’ll meet them later—were in charge of rerouting Emblian troops, though, I guess that didn’t work out quite as we planned.”

There is a brief mutter then. The most Kiran can make out is “Matthew” and “understaffed.”

“Anyways, Breidablik’s power, as you saw, is to summon heroes. Like Virion!” She makes a brief wave behind them towards said man. He waves back and returns to retrieving arrows, any that were still salvageable.

She carries on for a bit before stopping.

“Oh! I forgot to introduce myself. My name’s Anna, Commander of the Order of Heroes.” She extends her hand then, and Kiran gives what he hopes is a firm handshake.

“Kiran.”

Satisfied, Anna lets go.

“So, do you think you want to help us?”

It takes all of Kiran’s will to not sound overeager when he agrees.

* * *

They end up walking to the rendezvous point, and for the most part, it is a strenuous yet boring walk for Kiran. Their group is on the small side, consisting of Anna, Virion, Kiran, and three Askrian soldiers. Anna takes the lead and the soldiers to the rear, leaving Kiran and Virion towards the middle.

When asked about horses, Anna merely shrugs apologetically.

“Sorry, most of them were spooked or injured, and the closest town is ‘bout fifty miles away. It’d be a bit conspicuous if we had horses as well. Furthermore, we wouldn’t be able to take this path if we did. Only reason we had them before was ‘cause of time constraints.”

Kiran’s feet ache with each step. He is entirely used to concrete sidewalks and smooth roads and entirely unused to ducking underneath tree branches and watching his step for snakes and biting insects.

As a result, Kiran ends up pestering Virion to pass the time and distract himself.

Kiran asks about Rosanne, Virion’s occupation, his archery technique, and so forth. He chatters a bit, speaking too quickly and rambling.

Virion, to his credit, takes it in stride for the most part. Though, he is a bit confused by some questions.

(“French? Which country is that? I am from Rosanne.”)

It takes them roughly twelve hours, split between two days and semi-frequent stops, to reach the rendezvous point. To Kiran’s amazement, it is less of the makeshift meeting point and more of a full-blown military encampment.

Anna, noticing Kiran’s expression, explains, “Raigh’s platoon was in charge of setting up base in advance. They set everything up while we dealt with the main operation.”

She made a motion for them to walk behind her.

“Watch your step. They dropped some caltrops.”

As they pass the trenches and palisades, Anna gives a small wave to the entrance guards and receives a nod of acknowledgement in return. When they cross the entrance, she dismisses the soldiers in the group, and they leave after a quick salute.

The interior of the camp is neatly organized. A path ran to the center of the camp and around the commander’s tent. Surrounding the center tent are rows of smaller tents. Presumably, they are for the other soldiers. Kiran had some difficulty reading the script that was etched on the banners next to each section. It is not quite English or Gaeilge. At least, it is not in any form recognizable to Kiran.

Nearest to the left wall are the horses, pack mules, and (to Kiran’s delight) pterippi. To the far right of the encampment, Kiran could see the faint curl of smoke—a cooking fire most likely. The smell of roasting herbed meat drifted as he passes. It is a mouthwatering aroma even if he could not see what was being cooked.

They make their way towards the commander’s tent, passing by cargo trains and various soldiers, both women and men. Most of the soldiers do not pay them much mind, more focused on their own work or revelry. In particular, a woman with auburn hair catches his attention, not because of her appearance but because of her frantic apologies. By the sight of scattered wares—mostly plates, bowls, and utensils—and the scowling man in front of her, he could hazard a conjecture.

Though some take a moment to glance at Breidablik. Kiran could not exactly hide the thing. His bag had not made the trip to Zenith with him, and his pants’ pockets were not exactly large enough for what was essentially a fancy handgun.

When they reach the tent, Anna pulls back the flap and motions for them to enter.

The inside of the tent is sparsely decorated in comparison to the rest of the camp. In the far-right corner, there is a weapons rack pressed up to a stack of wooden crates. Across from it are a set of bedrolls. In the center is a large stump with a map laid on top—a makeshift war table.

On the people present, there are only two, a boy and a girl. Kiran could not really consider them anything else. Their faces still held a bit of the roundness of adolescence. To Kiran, they seemed at least a decade younger, give or take a year or two.

It is a bit uncomfortable how young they are in comparison to their apparent duties, but Kiran chalks that up to medieval conventions. Adulthood was held at different standards; they looked to be in their late teens anyway, close to modern adulthood.

The boy presents himself as Alfonse. His way of speaking is a bit stiff, intentionally cold. In contrast, the girl—his sister—is bright, almost unbearably so, and gives her name as Sharena.

Despite their radical differences, they are charming.

Virion introduces himself first with a bow.

It is easy enough to introduce himself, especially after Virion’s confident gesture.

What is difficult is listening to the subsequent tactical discussion. Kiran can only understand bits and pieces. Of course, he understands the language by itself—it is still English and he is still American despite his new circumstance—but it is difficult to keep up with the tactical jargon and overall meaning. The most he understands is the parts concerning himself—and his identity and abilities as the Summoner.

It is embarrassing, and he cannot quite bring himself to interrupt. Alongside embarrassment, it would be tedious if they had to halt the conversation every time Kiran could not understand the purpose of a particular maneuver or recap of so-and-so—which was quite frequent.

Kiran is a reader, not a seasoned tactician. Though, it seems that the position of Great Hero required one to be as such.

Thus, it comes as a relief when he feels a tap on his shoulder. It is an even greater relief when Virion whispers in his ear, summarizes and explains the conversation in a way that he easily understands.

The human causalities of the last battle—the one related to Kiran’s summoning—are relatively small. Rather, the most serious of the losses were the horses—winged or otherwise. They had underestimated the number of archers deployed. Furthermore, the weather had not been on their side. What had been forecasted as a blistering hot day had instead been mild. Thus, the ground had remained muddy from the recent rainfall.

Slipping and sinking were not fun activities for anyone, but especially for the horses.

Comparatively fragile leg bone structures to other animals meant a fall could mean the end of service and a decommission.

The horses had been armored of course, but that did not decrease their size (or the size of their rider) at all. They are still large targets, and there was only so much barding they could supply for a horse before it became inefficient. Additionally, the barding (and the riders) had only increased their weight, slowing the animals down further.

On mundane occasions, a loss or two of seconds would not mean much, but a battlefield is a rather different place than a noble’s garden.

However, Embla had not gotten off lightly either. Their cavalry had suffered equally, but equal eye-for-eye outcomes were not exactly satisfactory. They were preferred to total losses of course, but a victory was obviously much preferred, especially in a long-running conflict such as theirs.

It did not help that Embla’s troops are making in-roads in Askr, still just inches into the border and surrounding area, but it is still a cause for concern.

Lack of sufficient funding, as Anna complains. They have the support of the crown of course, but the refusal to increase taxation and war production—the lack of full commitment—is a problem.

“I understand King Gustav’s reasoning, but we need his full support. I don’t want to burden Askr’s people either, but Princess Veronica has started contracting Heroes!”

There is a bit of back and forth then between Anna and Alfonse then, with the occasional chime-in from Sharena—which Virion explains eloquently. To Kiran’s continuing surprise, King Gustav is the sibling pair’s father.

There is a bit of heat in their conversation before it settles, and Anna speaks again.

“We can discuss this again later. Arguing isn’t going to solve our problems. Additionally, Kiran?”

He jerks a bit in surprise at the mention of his name. He had not exactly been prime conversation material outside his initial introduction and explanation of his identity.

“You—and Virion—must be tired, right? You aren’t exactly used to the everything yet.” Kiran blushes a bit at that. She is not wrong. The reason why it had taken them so long to reach camp was because of his own physical inadequacies—stamina was not one of his finer points.

“Sharena”—she gives a nod to the girl—"can lead you and Virion to your tent. I hope you don’t mind sharing for now; space is a bit scarce, and we can situate you better once we return to our main base of operations.”

“I’ll send someone to call you both once dinner is ready.”

He follows Sharena out and walks behind her.

She is quite a chatty girl, and it is a bit tiring. Kiran does not dislike chattiness; it is simply something that he is unused to. He is much more comfortable in the quiet companionship of words. It is not unpleasant to hear Sharena’s chatter mingled in with the noise of camp life, but still, Kiran appreciates Virion humoring her. It deflects most of her questions from him.

After a few minutes of walking, they reach their tent.

“Here we are! It’s not the biggest tent we have, but it’s serviceable, and the bedrolls are clean.” Sharena is a bit sheepish at that.

“We’ll be staying here for a few more days—roughly three. We’re waiting on intel from Matthew—he’s another Hero—before moving on,” she explains. She continues a bit more, mostly basic information about Raigh and Matthew, before she bids them farewell.

“Feel free to find me if you need anything.”

With that, she leaves.

* * *

Dinner passes by smoothly. For Kiran, it is a cut of cooked venison, wedged between two thin slices of bread, and a cup of watered-down wine. The wine is not much to speak of—incomparable to the modern version and even to Communion wine—but it is acceptable. At the very least, it is not swill.

Afterwards, Anna meets him on the way back to tent and passes him a folded bundle of cloth.

(“It’s a cloak, not the best one, but it’s useable. We can get you something better once we get back to Askr Castle. For now, it should keep out the cold.”)

The bedrolls, true to Sharena’s words, are only serviceable. The tent itself was nowhere near as large as the commander’s tent, but it is still much better than his previous experience with sleeping in the outdoors. It keeps the wind out at least.

But what Kiran enjoys the most is the bath, or rather, wash. In the morning, he, alongside Virion, make their way to the nearby river. Bathing mostly took place in pairs or small groups. It is easier to keep track of people that way.

He bathes first with Virion keeping watch with his bow. They are quite close to camp—enough that a shout would grab someone’s attention—and the patrols are active, but it is more of an extra safety precaution than anything else.

It is a relief to remove his scratchy, dirty clothes and submerge himself in the clear water. He would have to hand-wash them later, but it is not too much of a bother. He has a clean set of clothes to change into; Anna had provided him a set before they had left.

He does not pay much mind to Virion’s presence until the other man speaks.

“Summoner, it seems that you are not well-versed in tactics.”

It is not something he is keen to admit to verbally, despite the proof of the matter. There exists a sense of pride for him, a natural sort that all men have even in matters that they lack experience in. But, it is not like he can lie to Virion; the man had translated everything earlier for him after all. Furthermore, a lie, if let to pass, would mean much more here than elsewhere.

It would be foolish for a variety of reasons.

Thus, he reluctantly nods, hoping that the water hides his flush.

He cannot see Virion from his current position, but he can imagine the other man sighing.

“That does us no good. I cannot translate for you every time there is a meeting.”

That burns Kiran even more, but it is the truth. There is a moment of silence, only accompanied by the sounds of running water and chittering wildlife, before Virion continues.

“But perhaps, you would be willing to take some lessons from me? During your spare time? I have some understanding of the art.”

It is a good offer, and Virion’s expertise was at least good enough to translate Anna and the siblings’ verbiage. That at least, that was better than his own expertise.

Perhaps he was a bit slow to reply, but Virion speaks again.

“You wouldn’t have to follow my orders or anything of that sort. You are the Summoner after all, no? I would simply teach you some terms and basic tactics.”

After a few more moments, Kiran agrees.

In this particular case, there is not much harm in learning.

* * *

The next two days pass by in a near-blur. Kiran wakes up, helps around camp (mostly minor things such as laundry and cooking), and listens in on the tactical meetings. At night, Virion tutors him in tactics.

He is getting somewhat better at it; Virion no longer has to translate every literal detail.

He cannot quite help out with the heavier duties, such as lifting crates or hunting, but he tries his best in what he can. It is still strenuous work all the same though. Kiran’s body is not quite used to waking up at daybreak and working until dusk. He often goes to bed sore.

On the fifth day near noon, Matthew arrives with news, though it is not quite as good as they would like.

There is an air of seriousness in the commander’s tent, and it is stifling to Kiran.

He listens to the best of his ability, but what catches his attention is the mention of Macedon. It is a familiar word, but he is not quite sure why.

It is vexing, the unsureness. Though, he is sure that he will remember the reason why sooner or later.

That is how these things—memories—normally go anyway.

* * *

Oh.

So that was the reason.

It is when they arrive in the World of Mystery that Kiran remembers. Specifically, it is at the mention of the Whitewings.

He jerks in his saddle and almost falls when Alfonse mentions them offhand, his actions attracting more than a few strange looks from his traveling companions.

It is a relatively small group—consisting of Anna, Sharena, Alfonse, Virion, and himself. They had left Raigh and Matthew behind at the camp—standby in case things went from okay to worse to abysmal.

(Kiran thinks it is a bit strange that he has not seen Raigh in-person yet, but Sharena assures him that that his sparsity normal. He was often the one leading the patrols. If he was not on a patrol, he would often hole himself up in his quarters—practicing his magecraft. She is often the one who drags him to social meetups and to dinnertime.)

On the soldiers themselves, there are not enough able horses or pterippi to field a platoon. Furthermore, the Whitewings are formidable aerial fighters; the Askrian fliers are not mediocre, but they are nowhere on par with a group recognized and immortalized in legend for their ability in the skies.

In this scenario, fielding an average flier is to send them to their deaths.

Instead, they are dependent on Virion’s archery. Most pterippi and wyverns are notoriously weak to arrows. Their wings are one of the few reliable areas to aim at, most being unarmored due to a need for flexibility in their aerial maneuvers and more desirable than the eyes due to the size of the appendages and the numerous blood vessels running underneath the thin skin.

It is normally not the rider that most archers aimed at, it is the pterippus or wyvern. A crippled wing or an arrow through the beast’s chest often meant a fall from great heights for the less disciplined. Whether the rider is jostled off or the pterippus plummets, it did not concern the average archer.

The results were often the same.

Whether the riders break their necks in the fall or their bodies shatter under the weight of their fallen mounts, it did not quite matter to the anyone but the crows.

One offered a much more substantial feast than the other.

Well, that is not entirely accurate. It often matters to the infantrymen at least where the beast fell. It is not uncommon for them to fall and pin an unfortunate soldier. Of course, Virion assures them that he is an excellent archer, capable of nonlethally pinning flying beasts to the earth like their more grounded siblings.

Though, Kiran is not quite sure how that works considering the height.

Would the fall not be just as devastating?

* * *

Though, he still does not quite know what to think. Whitewings were a fictional group in a story, not a real military group.

But in all honesty, it is a bit hypocritical of him to think that. Was traveling to a different world not a thing of fantasy? Why couldn’t he have traveled to a world where the stories he read were real?

Did the Pevensies not travel to another world through a wardrobe? And Alice through the rabbit hole?

There are precedents, the idea of them anyway.

* * *

The princess is frightening.

Not Minerva. She is quite fierce in her own calm way, but she is not intentionally malevolent. Furthermore, he _knows_ her. Or rather, he knows her fictional counterpart, but that is similar enough he thinks. He has seen her at her worst and best. He has also seen her with one of Virion’s arrows pinned through her abdomen, enough to puncture skin but not deep enough to destroy the organs. True to Virion’s word, it is nonfatal but hazardous enough to force a landing.

Luckily enough, it is easily patched up by her sister’s magic.

(He is still thrilled at the thought of knowing her name, _all_ of their names. He finally has _real names_ and _real faces_ to put to the idea of them.)

But rather, Princess Veronica is frightening.

He does not like how cold her eyes are and how _cruelly decisive_ she is.

She is an unpredictable element and that does settle well with him.

* * *

Meeting Marth is a wonderful kind of surreal, a dream within a dream of the fantasy of reality.

Seeing the prince, he just wants to call to him, to speak to him, to hear him recount his journey in his own voice. Even with what he knows of him from the tales, he is a larger-than-life figure for Kiran.

He is the epitome of the classical prince and of noble ideals, Galahad given form from the ink. The prince just _radiates_ an earnest charisma. At this point, Kiran somewhat understands the knight’s fascination with his liege, somewhat though not entirely.

He is reluctant to leave the man’s company once their business is done.

* * *

After their business in the World of Mystery, they make their way back towards Askr Castle.

It is a rough trip and Kiran’s still not quite used to horseback, but he manages. Though, he is not fond of the bumpy path that Anna has chosen to take. On his belt hoop, Breidablik jostles against his hip again when his horse hits a bump. It is an uncomfortable sensation accentuated by his inexperience.

After three days of travel, they arrive at their destination at daybreak.

The town is bustling despite, or perhaps because of, the earliness of the day.

Warbling their crooning tune, the birds flew, vibrant crescents spread wide in flight, to and fro from roost to roost, roof to roof, and from clothesline to clothesline. Their melodies intermingle with clopping of the carriage horses, their legs moving powerfully and steadily like the wheels of a locomotive.

Interspersed within the song of the town was the chattering of children and the boasts of merchants, one eager for lighthearted revelry and the other for their livelihood. The children—in their juvenile mirth—run to and fro from stall to stall and house to house in their games, oblivious to the shouts of irritated merchants and concerned parents.

In them was the liveliness of youth; it is a carefree joy specific to childhood and lost when one reached the cusp of adulthood. It is the price of maturity. For adults, it is an ignorant joy that most were only capable of touching in the fleeting realms of Mnemosyne, and few mimic with the grace of the Muses.

While the children run, the merchants peddle their wares, their stalls overflowing with early spring’s heralds and the fruits and greens stacked high like an offering to nature’s forgotten queen. Completing the symphony is the haggling of customers—elderly men, youthful women, round-faced children—and the clinking of coin changing hands.

Like the spectators of a play, a cluster of knights stand watch nearby, content in peace’s silence and their white armor glinting in morning’s kiss.

It is a simple life in some respects, but that is the reflection of humanity’s hymn.

In these moments, a component of life’s greater scheme, is the sincerity lost by awareness.

There is a sense of the sublime and the beautiful, and it permeates him.

As they pass by, some of the children wave to them. By his side, Sharena, on her own horse, waves to them.

Anna leads them through the cobblestone streets, pass flowering trees and flowerbeds and the occasional yipping dog. The smell of baking pastries and rising loaves wafts from the bakeries they pass.

If the town had inspired awe in Kiran, the castle stirs him more so.

Askr Castle is a wonderful place, a real-life Camelot with its adorned battlements and silvery blue-white stone. In spring’s whisper, the banners flutter in the wind, waving gently as if to greet its protectors. The towers—outstretched towards the sky as if to caress her lover’s pale, decorated face—gleam proudly under the radiance of dawn’s chariot and the blessing of earth’s bloom.

It is a massive place, larger than what he thinks is possible in his original world.

If God, Odin, Zeus, or any other number of divine figures exist, he imagines that this was what their kingdom would look like.

Sharena, seeing his awe, laughs goodheartedly.

“It’s big, isn’t it? You should see the castle in the capital! There, I often had to write letters to my mother even though we lived in the same castle! We rarely got the chance to speak in-person.”

There is a hint of sadness at that.

* * *

Kiran is given a few days of respite, a period of “settling in” as it were.

He spends most of it lost in the winding corridors with the paintings and the servants as his source of directions. Of course, he receives guidance from the Askrians, but it is not like Alfonse or Sharena could follow at every hour of the day. They had their own duties to attend to. This further extended to Anna.

Outside of mealtime and the initial miniature tour of the castle, he has not seen her, busy as she was. Though, he is introduced to the Order’s carrier bird and apparent mascot, Feh.

Even with the tour, it is still difficult to navigate Askr Castle. Kiran could not imagine what it was like growing up in such a place. How did Alfonse and Sharena not lose their sense of direction?

He is getting better at it though, he thinks. He has memorized the location of a few paintings and decorative doodads, landmarks, though not enough yet to where he could go from destination to destination without trouble.

For example, there is a bust of a dragon that sits nearby the door of his bedroom and a portrait of an ocean sunset three corridors down and to the left of where his room is situated. Kiran always knows that he is on the right track to the dining area when he sees it.

He is still roughly ten minutes late to breakfast everyday though. It has gotten to the point where he thinks Anna has sent more servants to work around his room and the surrounding corridors. It is a bit embarrassing, but he appreciates the fact that she had not sent an escort yet. That would have been a blow to his pride.

Alongside the tour, Kiran had received a replacement overcoat. It is a clean white with golden accents with a hood. It is plain in comparison to what Alfonse or Sharena wear, less gold ornamentation and plating, but the cloth itself was where Askrian tailoring shone. It is a soft, flexible material, and Kiran could not quite discern what animal it came from. But, the stitching is impeccable, almost unnoticeable, and the weight itself is feather-light.

It fits him perfectly, and complements the black of his turtleneck. For Breidablik, he had received a leather holster and an accompanying belt to hook it on.

(“Think of it as your uniform”—Anna winks at that—“it’s much more durable than the cloak I gave you before, and everyone in Askr recognizes the markings of the Order of Heroes. You won’t have any problems in our territory with it on.”)

After a week or so, Anna takes him to the summoning altar.

* * *

It is an hour’s ride by horseback to reach the altar's clearing.

There is not much he can do but follow Anna and the siblings though. A few soldiers had followed as well alongside a few extra horses.

There, they dismount at the base of the hill. A stone path curled around the hill, leading to the summit. The stone path itself was grey in coloration and surprisingly well-kept despite its apparent age; a few trees grew from the hill and beside the stones. Kiran could not really notice any cracks or imperfections in the rock. It was wholly smooth.

There is a bounce in Sharena’s step as she bounds up the stone stairs first. Alfonse had elected to stay with the horses which left Anna and Kiran to walk by themselves behind Sharena.

As they ascend, Anna elaborates on the purpose and process of summoning.

“There are multiple altars scattered across Zenith, and Breidablik connects to all of them, according to the old texts anyway.”

There’s a brief pause as Anna pushes an outlying branch out of the way.

“This one here—and its twin another hour away—are the closest ones to Askr Castle. Though in the text I mentioned they’re also considered the ‘weakest’ ones.” She makes a pair of air quotes at that.

“Weakest?” Kiran can’t help but wonder at that. How could they defend Askr if the Heroes they summoned were weaker? Would it not be better to travel to a farther altar if it meant stronger Heroes?

Anna, quick to interpret Kiran’s inherent meaning, answers, “I don’t mean in terms of terms of Heroes’ strength, but in _how many_ are connected to these stones. Not every hero can be summoned at the same altar, and some are actually more attuned to particular ones.”

That is a bit of a bother. It already took them an hour to arrive at this one, and he still isn’t used to riding on a horse. If they had to travel to a particular stone every time they needed a certain hero, it would be a problem.

She notices his look and elaborates further.

“It’s all tied to the astrological positions of the sun, the moon, stars, that sort of thing. While some Heroes are more likely to appear at a particular altar, that doesn’t mean that they’re the _only_ ones that can show up. Depending on the time, others can appear can as well. You can ask Alfonse about it if you’re interested in the specifics. He’s the one responsible for researching it.”

They reach the summit then. There, Sharena is bouncing impatiently on her heels.

Anna steps forward first and motions for him to step in front of the altar.

Centered on the platform, the altar itself was a stone monument, carved with snaking lines that wound around a circular opening.

There is a shuffle behind him before Anna hands him a small burlap sack. Inside were a number of spheres (roughly twenty if Kiran had to guess), each one shining like a miniature rainbow. They are pretty things, each perhaps the size of a quail’s egg.

“They’re called—”

Kiran couldn’t understand the word that Anna says. He could not pronounce it either really. His tongue cannot form the syllables necessary without faltering.

“—but you can just call them orbs if you prefer.” There is a hint of amusement in Anna’s eyes at his butchering attempt at pronunciation. He understands that sort of amusement of course; he often feels the same way about Gaeilge. It is simply a perk of multilingualism, the ability to tease beginners.

“They’re what you need to summon. Use Breidablik, and it should take you from there.” She steps back then and goes to stand next to Sharena.

Kiran’s hands shakes slightly as he pulls Breidablik from its holster, and his heartbeat quickens. It had been simple enough when he had still been distracted by the castle’s glamour and the excitement of warfare, but now—when it came to it and the relic was in hand—it was hard to separate himself from the reality of it.

What if it didn’t work? What if summoning Virion had been a fluke? What would happen to him then? He certainly didn’t have a place to go home to, and Askr’s hospitality most likely depended on his ability to summon.

It had been one thing to have one success—that was called fate’s joke—but it is another entirely to replicate an event.

He lingers there in hesitation, and he can feel Anna’s expectations and Sharena’s impatience—and that is familiar even if the faces are different. There is not much he can do but try really, pull the trigger and expect failure.

So, he does.

To his surprise (and immense relief), the orbs soar from the bag and form a five-point formation, some orbs merging into the others. The iridescent sheen pulses, colors swirling in a frenzy, before they eventually change to a more monochrome shade. Two, the ones forming the lower points, settle first into a ruby red—the color of ripe strawberries. The next to settle are the middle spheres, both turning emerald green, like a freshly cut sprig. Finally, the topmost one settles into a light grey. It reminds him of a rabbit’s early winter coat, when the grey has only begun to morph into white.

He waits for a few moments, unsure of what to do. Turning to Anna and Sharena isn’t much help. Anna only gives him a thumbs up, and Sharena looks close to bursting with anticipation.

With not much else to do, he decides to touch one. He feels like Hermann betting on the Ace, but he eventually decides to choose the bottom right red. At his touch, the orb flies into the monument’s opening and settles before fading in a burst of smoke and light.

The smoke covers most of the area and obscures Kiran’s vision. He doesn’t really know if it worked until a voice resounds throughout the clearing.

“My name is Corrin, raised in Nohr but born in Hoshido. I have answered your call, and to you, I devote my Yato blade and my dragon power!”

From the smoke emerges a young man. His white hair is cut unevenly and covers a pair of pointed ears, but rather than appearing sloppy, it accentuates his youthful, heart-shaped face. His armor is a mixture of white and black.

Kiran cannot exactly place him by appearance alone, but it is the introduction that helps identify him as the prince from the last set of stories. Though, he is still unsure if the man is the version from Valla or the one who sided entirely with Nohr. While the Nohr-sided prince had been described as wearing primarily black armor, the prince of Valla’s armor hadn’t been described at all. It would not have been entirely sound reasoning to assume this Corrin’s loyalty merely based on his fashion choices.

Though that would have to wait for later as Sharena, after Corrin’s introduction concludes, springs to him and pull him back towards where she had previously stood. By her chatter, she would not be letting him leave anytime soon.

Anna does not stop her either; she merely makes a shooing motion towards Kiran, urging him to continue.

There is less hesitation this time. While there still was a chance of failure, a second success had bolstered his confidence somewhat.

He decides to tap on the leftmost green orb this time. Giving it a tap, it follows the same pattern as its sibling and flies toward the altar. Though this time, there is no puff of smoke. Rather, there is only a burst of light before he hears a curt voice speak.

The man only introduces himself as Raven before folding his arms over his chest, apparently done with their conversation. It is a bit rude honestly, but Kiran supposes some people were simply just like that.

Much like before, Sharena rushes him off. There is a sense of irritableness that rolls off of him at her actions, but she seems oblivious to it as she pulls him to the side.

He goes clockwise then, and to his befuddlement, the next two orbs—the gray and green—only yield two crystalline shards, each the color of their respective spheres and the size of a human palm.

Though this time, it is Anna—rather than Sharena—who goes to pick them up.

She turns them over in her hand, before passing them to Kiran.

There is a brief flash of images in his mind. The grey yields a hazy image of Virion and the green of Raven.

“They’re—”

Yet again, there’s a word he can’t really understand or pronounce.

“—just call them extra copies or shards.” Anna’s understanding of his linguistic difficulties is helpful if a bit embarrassing. Was he really that obvious?

“From the text I read, when Breidablik connects to the same Hero after your initial summon, it only takes a fragment of them, their power really, rather than transporting them entirely to Zenith.”

She makes a motion for him to hand back the crystals, and he does. She bends and picks up the discarded sack before placing the crystals into it and tightening the drawstrings.

“You can use these to strengthen the Heroes they represent. Though I’m not entirely sure how. Ingested maybe?” She shrugs at that.

“Alfonse is still looking into it.” She makes her way back to her previous spot.

Though it is the last orb that brings him near-unparalleled glee.

There is the same puff of smoke as with Corrin, though it is a different swordsman that makes an appearance.

Left hand clutching at his cape, it is the prince once again. Though judging by his introduction, he does not remember their previous encounter. Kiran is a bit disappointed at that, the fact that he had not been able to make an impression on him, but it is no big matter.

He has time to make an acquaintance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1, 2, and partially the upcoming 3 is more setup than anything else—both for Kiran and for Zenith—for the upcoming chapters. I do think this is a slow-moving fic considering the full length, but it is styled after the classics and Bildungsromans in a sense with the length, focus, and such.
> 
> On the previous chapter, if it is not apparent, Kiran is not someone who comes from the modern time though it isn't a completely fictitious time period either as the mentions of the draft and Nixon imply. He doesn't exist in a random state either, though the town (in its name) is fictional to the best of my knowledge. The geography is also based on an actual state's.
> 
> On this chapter, Askr's fort is actually based on Roman encampments and their layout if one needs a reference to look at.
> 
> As a side note, my word choice is very much intentional, no matter how strange at times (such as with "pallid light" from last chapter's ending). I am someone who prefers the Faulkner style of word choice and coined+clipped word usage. It is not chosen simply for thesaurus-related reasons but because it offers something to what I want to achieve in relation to the themes, Kiran's character, and so forth. In a sense, I wrote it with the capability of being analyzed in a literary perspective if one wished to.


	3. Alice Among the Fairies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ultimately, growth requires practical experience rather than simply knowledge from books. Kiran finds that Zenith is not as idyllic as he would like it to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is taken from one of the original proposed titles for Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland.  
> I will be posting the rest of the chapters one to two chapters a week as my schedule is too busy to go at a slower pace; I want to clear this from my schedule as soon as possible. As a result, editing will also be more cursory than anything else. I have obligations and cannot spend hours reorganizing text unfortunately.

Because he puts the compromising chart

Of hell before your eyes, you are afraid;

Because he counts the price that you have paid

For innocence, and counts it from the start,

You loathe him. But he sees the human heart

Of God meanwhile, and in His hand was weighed

Your squeamish and emasculate crusade

Against the grim dominion of his art.

— “Zola,” Edwin Arlington Robinson

When they make it back to the castle at sunset, it is Sharena who situates the new Heroes. It is a bit disappointing that he cannot talk to the princes, but it would not do to hurry them he thinks. They are still royalty no matter how modest or kind they seemed. Furthermore, answering Breidablik’s call and traveling between worlds had to be tiring.

(He would have included Raven as well if the man had not made it abundantly clear that he disliked all them. Kiran does not really understand why he would answer Breidablik then, but he guesses, everyone had their own secrets.)

He knows them deeply of course; he has followed their tales from start to end and in Corrin’s case, every possibility. But, appearances must be kept.

It had been easier to interact with Virion, despite his noble status, because, to Kiran, he embodied the caricature of a nobleman, snobbish and boastful. He is not a fairy tale prince or exceedingly (or naively) kind. It was harder to know when to stop if one couldn’t predict where another’s fuse ended.

* * *

He still meets with Virion every night, an hour or two before dinner—depending on the day’s schedule—for lessons on tactics. It is a bit of a long walk; Virion’s room is on another floor entirely, an upper area. But, Kiran does not mind too much. Virion is good company despite his snobbishness.

Though, the duke does not like it all too much when Kiran pries into his previous life before his summon. Of course, Kiran knows which character he is—the mention of Rosanne is enough to identify him—but it is different to hear the story told from the mouth of the source rather than through the view of someone else.

Furthermore, he has gotten somewhat better at tactics he thinks. Virion’s pulled out the chessboard for study anyway. He’s also stopped sighing as much at Kiran’s blunders. For Kiran, that meant progress.

Likewise, he has gotten better at navigating the castle as well, less lost and less dependent on directions from servants. It makes it easier to find Heroes—whether in their quarters or in their wanderings.

Corrin’s amiable, more so than even what Kiran expects from reading his stories. He often finds him in the process (or attempt) of helping a servant. It is common to find him mingling with the servants on laundry day or in the kitchens before mealtime.

When asked, Corrin only explains, “I like to learn how to do things by myself. I was sheltered for most of my life, and my retainers often did things for me.”

He lingers a bit on the word “retainers,” as if remembering something, before he continues.

“Perhaps, you’ll summon one of them some day. I certainly think they qualify for the status of Hero.”

Corrin is a nice change of pace from his attempts at socializing with Raven.

In contrast, Raven is overly sullen and withdrawn at times, more focused on his training than with mingling.

Though, he is one of the easier Heroes to find. This is especially noticeable when compared to the likes of Matthew, who always seemed to be on some reconnaissance mission.

Kiran often finds him in the courtyard, whaling on a training dummy with his axe.

Their conversations do not amount to more than idle talk really.

Kiran would ask a question. In return, Raven grunts and swings his axe. Afterwards, Kiran has to interpret that grunt. It’s not all that useful really when it comes to his more complicated questions.

Though, Raven is more talkative in the rare moments that Kiran catches him in the hallways.

(“Is this touching stuff some sort of amusement?” Kiran is a bit sheepish, but Raven uttering more than two or so words was a victory. Even if he almost loses his finger. Raven wasn’t really someone that one should sneak up on and poke. Especially considering the fact that the man took his axe everywhere.)

And on Marth, the prince is delightful. He’s an eloquent speaker and open though not as easily found alone as the other Heroes. He is often with Anna and Alfonse, discussing some matter relating to Askr or to his own history and so forth. Though Kiran deeply enjoys the moments when he’s present during these discussions; he likes hearing the prince discuss his battles.

It is a nice kind of daily pace.

* * *

In the moments that he does get alone with Marth, he asks him about his knights and his kingdom.

He does not ask about Kris of course; it would be strange if he knew of him if the man was supposed to be a forgotten knight. Instead, he merely picks at pieces, little details that the prince drops. He asks for elaboration; it is a natural trait for Kiran, curiosity and eagerness.

Marth, for all of his good qualities, answers as best as he can.

Those conversations, those are some of the ones that Kiran enjoys best.

* * *

Over the course of a month, Anna takes him to various altars around Askr, and he summons.

Though, he is still not quite attuned to horseback riding; the skin on his inner calves chafe red and bruise dark. He supposes it was a consequence of his previous activities in his in his past world and his bookish habits; his most strenuous job had been stacking canned fruit and aluminum cans. His body is soft, unused to strain, and roughly a month and a half of work was not enough to fix that.

But, he does relish the joy he gets from aiding villages and the occasional traveler—always on the way to another altar—and summoning. It is in the gratitude and in the meeting of new individuals.

The people he meets in these occasions are a varied lot, in both skills and personality. He summons archers such as Takumi and Gordin to lancers such as Azura and Ephraim. On character, his meetings varied from the kindhearted sort, such as Julia and Lucina, to the more bloodthirsty if potentially malevolent with Karel and Henry.

(If he had not read their tales, he most likely would not have kept them around. He had figured out how to dismiss Heroes some time ago when his summoning capacity had hit limit. Though alongside that, he had also figured out how to expand its capacities. It was a balancing act of sorts since expanding required resources, augmenting Breidablik with an orb.)

It is a varied sort of deal. However, they are not always peaceful sorts of engagements. There is conflict and confusion at time between the people he summons. But that is something that comes with summoning between time and space, he supposes.

No one quite belongs.

* * *

He enjoys meeting new Heroes almost as much as Sharena does.

He knows them intimately from his stories. He has seen their pain, their glory, and their victory or fall. But to him, they had been mostly faceless, figments of his imagination and whatever face and voice he could gift to them.

It is another entirely to see them in person. Even those that he hadn’t cared for in print had been lovely, charming in their mannerisms in some way or another, whether in appearance or action. That was the difference between word and flesh.

His last altar is to the north of Askr Castle, halfway up a mountain. It is a rough trek for him, especially the stone stairs. Unlike his first summoning session, the trek up the stairway was twice the length and much steeper, slippier as well from the recent rainfall.

His first summoning session yields only duplicates and so does the second ring. It is obnoxious, but he has been summoning quite frequently. Perhaps they would have to wait until next month when the astrological positions moved? He is not quite sure (Alfonse’s explanation hadn’t helped either, too many technical terms), but Anna hands him another set of orbs and holds up three fingers.

Three more rings then before they stop.

Like his previous sessions, the next one yields nothing substantial, just extra copies.

It is in his next session, on the second to last sphere, that his breath is taken away.

It is a woman that appears from the smoke, fair hair unrestrained and long. Garbed in serene blue and shrouded in whites, she has the appearance of one of Heaven’s messengers taken mortal—though no less ethereal—form. Carrying a sturdy hardwood staff and by the appearance of her modest robes, she looked to be a cleric. Clipped to her cream-colored sash is a light chestnut tinted charm. A religious charm perhaps? It would have melded well with the religious image.

Her face is round, heart-shaped, and framed picture-pretty by straight blond hair. Complementing her appearance is a set of gentle yet determined blue eyes.

She’s beautiful, rivaling Helen and worthy of Venus. If he had been Paris, he would have gifted her the golden apple without hesitation, without consideration for any competitor.

Though Kiran’s illusion is quickly broken once the woman, no _man_ , speaks.

Despite the lowness, the softness of tone and speech, it is a man’s voice. It’s sweet, melodious, but no less a man’s, one of Adam’s progeny rather than Eve’s.

“My name is Lucius. I can tend to your wounded. So I beg you—please put me to work immediately.”

It’s a sincere request and Kiran’s heart aches for a reason he cannot understand. But he doesn’t have to ponder it long before Sharena starts her routine.

She was always eager to make friends, and in this moment, he’s grateful to her.

The rest of his summoning session goes fairly well. He summons Jaffar (he can imagine Nino’s joy at that), Priscilla, and Ninian.

It is a decent selection considering how many orbs Anna had brought up the mountain.

When they begin the descent down, Kiran buries his thoughts.

* * *

He avoids Lucius as much as he can when they return to Askr Castle.

He takes to memorizing Lucius’s general routine. On most mornings, Lucius holes himself up in the infirmary. In the afternoon after lunch, he takes to the hallways or to the courtyard with Raven. And at night, he returns to the infirmary until the late hours.

It is a simple routine to remember.

He doesn’t have a problem with the man nor with his appearance; he just didn’t want to associate with him more than was necessary. He is not malicious. He didn’t call people poof, fairy, or anything of that sort like his parents did when they made the news last year.

(Though could it really be called last year if he was in a different world? Time most likely flowed differently in Zenith.)

But, Raven seems to be in a better mood with Lucius and Priscilla around. He was still perpetually cranky, but at least, he spoke more than once a day now—longer sentences as well.

The castle is bustling as well with all of the new additions. It is happier as well.

(Jakob’s taken to following Corrin as well, and the prince seems more vibrant, content. Though, he doesn’t really seem to enjoy Jakob’s attempt at commandeering his domestic duties.)

He sees Matthew around more often too, most like the result of summoning more spies and infiltrators.

It is a happy bunch for the most part.

* * *

Though like many of the best laid plans, it doesn’t exactly go how Kiran wants.

He ends up bumping into Lucius in the corridors quite frequently. It never ends in anything violent or loud. He doesn’t even get annoyed at their frequent encounters. He’s not that sort of man. More often than not, they only exchange awkward apologies.

It is perplexing, both the relative frequency of their meetings and Lucius’s temperament.

It is a relief of course, his lack of anger, but it speaks too much of his character.

And that, that is what bothers Kiran. It makes him want to speak to him more, lessen their distance and increase their familiarity.

Kindness and even temperaments often dissolved disquiet and discomfort.

Furthermore, Anna often sends him to the infirmary to pick up materials. He does not really understand what she would need from the place. As much as he can see, she is never injured, but her mind did work in strange ways. Sometimes, it was better not to question her and simply go along with her plans.

He does the same for Alfonse as well. He doesn’t really understand why he didn’t just have a healer stand watch when the soldiers drilled. They certainly had plenty.

But he does as he’s asked. He likes the feeling of helping.

Whenever he arrives at the infirmary, Lucius is there, and it always takes a few minutes to gather Anna’s list of goods or fulfill Alfonse’s request. As a result, they often have time to talk. No matter who collected Anna’s or Alfonse’s items, it’s always a conversation between them.

It is strange, though Kiran cannot truthfully say he dislikes it.

If Elise or Sakura or whomever goes to gather the materials, Lucius, from his workstation, takes the time to talk to him—his hands still working at whatever healing concoction he had started before Kiran entered all the while. If Lucius is the one to fulfill the request, he talks to him over the shuffling of ingredients as he packs them into containers.

He replies to Lucius of course. It would be awkward otherwise, with how frequently he visited.

He doesn’t really understand why Lucius talks to him so frequently; Kiran doesn’t think he’s missed a day since he’s started coming in. At the very least, Lucius always manages a greeting at the minimum.

Their conversations had started out as idle small talk—pleasantries on the weather, the antics of other Heroes, the sort of topics one would find in the break room between co-workers—before moving onto more serious topics after a few weeks of idle chatter.

That was the sort of person Kiran happened to be. He prodded. They end up exchanging words various subjects—nature, art, music, and so forth. It’s easy to talk to Lucius.

Despite his gentle appearance, he was quick, sharp-witted in a way similar to a blade. Kiran finds himself laughing at Lucius’s light jests. They’re not malicious, but rather jests done in good will or simply puns or observations.

It is a dry sense of humor, and he appreciates that. It’s not bawdy or high-strung chattery.

In those moments, he also notices how much taller Lucius is than him, when the other man stands to his full height to reach into the cabinets. He isn’t absurdly tall, but there’s a noticeable difference—about half a head’s worth—between them. It’s an uncomfortable detail to notice.

Kiran does not seek him out outside of their infirmary conversations or their hallway collisions.

* * *

“You should get over it.”

Robin’s voice shakes him from his book. After he had summoned Robin, the other tactician had taken it upon himself to tutor him in strategy. And so, his time with Virion had changed to time with Robin.

(Of course, Anna’s insistence had played a part in it.)

Virion is a good tutor of course, but Robin is a legendary tactician.

There is quite a difference between a tactician who won frequently at a tremendous cost and one that consistently won without loss. Naturally, he misses Virion’s tutelage; the man is his first summoned Hero, and their time together had become routine. Of course, Kiran still visits Virion regularly, but he couldn’t do it every day. He didn’t have enough time for that, not with how many new Heroes had appeared.

Kiran doesn’t really understand what Robin means so the man elaborates.

He leans his head languidly onto the palm of his hand—elbow pressed into the oak table—as speaks, “That hang-up you have with Lucius. You’re not exactly good at hiding it as you think. You need to get over it. Soon.”

He looks a bit like a lazy cat with how he’s slumping. Kiran honestly hadn’t expected Robin—the tactician of Ylisse’s tale—to act like this when he had summoned him; it’s quite a difference from what he has read. He’s not a bad man of course; he’s still kindhearted at times, and overly observant of everyone’s needs, but it’s a disparity between what he knows and what he doesn’t.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Denial is a good start.

“Yeah you do” —he taps the fingers of his other hand, the one not pressed against his cheek, against the table—“You keep avoiding him unless it’s necessary. You don’t even deploy him in the same units that you’re in. It’s poor taste really.”

His tapping is obnoxious and overly loud in the silence of the room.

“Don’t deny it anymore either. I’m fairly good at reading people, tactician skill and all.” Kiran definitely sees the blasé amusement in the other tactician’s eyes. It makes him a bit angry for a moment, how much Robin assumes and the casual bluntness of his remarks.

His rebuttal is a bit harsher than he intends.

“I still deploy him, and I don’t intentionally lead him into bad situations.”

Robin frowns deeply at that.

“Yeah, but you don’t take _care_ of him”—Robin emphasizes that last part—“You don’t even try to get to know him. For that matter, you don’t try to _understand_ anyone here. It’s like you’re dependent on an approximate idea of what everyone’s like, afraid to offend but too afraid to connect.”

That observation stings, and Kiran doesn’t think it’s quiet accurate.

“I take care of everyone.” He fists are balled underneath the table; his book having been set page down to the side earlier. He’s not staring at Robin but rather at his hands and the flooring.

“Nah.” It’s overly casual and certain, and it infuriates him off. Apparently keen observational skills meant one was entitled to dismiss every rebuke as simply and arrogantly as possible.

“Corrin takes care of people. Kamui takes care of people. _Marth_ takes care of people.”

Kiran flinches at that, and he hopes Robin doesn’t notice. Though knowing the other man, he most likely did.

“You do carry out a lot of errands and research ‘course. Don’t get me wrong, but you don’t do anything deeper than that. It’s very superficial, ya know? You don’t try to provide anything _more_ for people, emotional comfort, friendship, that sort of thing. ‘Course I don’t expect you to know every single soldier’s needs, but even just _knowing_ _your important players_ is acceptable.”

His tapping continues, and Kiran is tempted to tell him to stop. Though before he does, Robin continues.

“Knowing and understanding people—whether they’re your friend or not—is a key ability of a tactician. You garner their loyalty, and they garner yours. It’s a two-way street. Without that, your army will fall at critical junctions.”

His tapping stops then, and Kiran looks up. Robin’s eyes are narrowed then, overly somber compared to his earlier playful tone.

“’sides, I don’t like how you look at Lucius. It reminds me too much of how someone close to me was treated. It’s very unpleasant to see. Change it.”

He gives a wink then, his playful tone returning.

“Anyways, that’s all I wanted to say. Think on it.”

He gives a quick rap on the table with his knuckles.

“Now, get back to your reading. We still have another half hour before dinner.”

* * *

He does not take Robin’s advice immediately.

Instead, he stews over it, gloomy and irritated. It’s not intentional; he’d rather forget about it all together, but that is a hard task when you have to see the man every day. It is quite harder as well when Robin doesn’t even seem to acknowledge that the conversation took place. Kiran doesn’t bring it up of course, but neither does Robin. Instead, he continues as he has always had—playful, lightly sardonic, and witty.

It’s infuriating.

(He doesn’t understand why Reflet—another of their recent additions—is so different from her counterpart. She is thoughtful and kind of course, but in an almost “prim” sort of way, less casual than her counterpart as well. Though, that is more from observation than anything else; Kiran does not talk to her much because of her company. He does not quite understand how she could frequent Henry’s company as much as she does. She even enjoyed his jokes. Even with his knowledge of him, Henry is grotesque, nice but horrid to be around with.)

He has tried to “hint” to Anna their differences as well and his wish to study under a different tactician. Ideally, Reflet. But, Anna doesn’t notice, or she does and ignores him anyway.

(He had summoned Soren recently, but he was the prickly, criticizing sort. The only reason he was cooperating was because of Ike. Kiran did not think they would be able to get along. On Katarina, she was too strange at times, insistent on his relation to some knight.)

He tries to hide it of course, keeps his hood up more and lets the white shroud him. He doesn’t think he is being too obvious. He often keeps his hood up anyway, but now he pulls it forward further, letting the cloth obscure his eyes. To most, it would most likely seem like a new fashion trend rather than anything more.

But of course, someone catches on anyway.

As these things often go, it is Lucius who does, during one of their infirmary conversations.

“Hmm, what troubles you?”

It’s one of the few days where Lucius had only offered a greeting—his current work requiring intensive concentration. His words come as a surprise; they had been silent for the most part—Lucius working and Kiran content with just waiting and looking around the room.

Kiran notices that Lucius’s hands have stilled—his fingers are long and slender, pianist fingers. It’s an odd contrast to the rest of his hands—lightly scarred with fading, jagged lines.

“Nothing.” It comes off ruder than he intends, but that was a fault of one-word answers. They’re quick and easy, but difficult to convey meaning with.

“Are you sure?” Lucius pushes this time, not content with his answer. It’s a bit uncharacteristic of him; Kiran is more used to him simply letting matters pass, nonconfrontational on simpler issues.

It’s unusual, and Kiran almost tells him before he stops himself. Kiran wonders where Elise is. Usually, she was one of the quicker ones when it came to Anna’s lists.

“Yes.” Another one-word answer unfortunately. He’s not quite good at this despite what his background would suggest; his vocabulary fails him.

Lucius frowns then.

“As you say. But if ever your mind is troubled, please speak with me.”

His eyes are sincere, and it hurts to look. Instead, Kiran looks at the wall behind him.

Thankfully, the awkwardness does not last long before Elise bounds back with a filled basket.

Unaware of their previous conversation, she’s still as cheerful as ever as she hands Kiran the basket.

* * *

The second person to notice is unsurprisingly or not, Virion. It’s over a midday tea.

“What ails you, Summoner?”

Was he really that obvious? Kiran stops stirring his tea—jasmine, Virion’s choice for the day. It’s fairly cold, having cooled some time ago during Kiran’s incessant stirring.

“Nothing”—the teaspoon is still held between his thumb and forefinger—“just tired.”

“Are you sure?” Virion’s accent is charming on most days, suitable for the man’s demeanor and personality. But today, it’s just obnoxious.

“Usually, you quite enjoy our chats, but today, why, the unhappiness just radiates off you!” He takes a moment to sip his tea, the picture of refinement.

“Furthermore, your tea is untouched outside of your swirling—“he frowns then—“you’re normally quite fond of jasmine.”

Kiran doesn’t reply, and so Virion continues to prod.

“Does this have something to do with Robin? I know the man. He can be quite blunt at times, but he means well. Or perhaps, it is Corrin? He was quite upset after our visit to the World of Bir—”

Virion continues with his questioning, going through a list of heroes and events and a variety of inane questions. It’s deafening, and Kiran cannot quite take it, not with the stress of his current preoccupations and the weight of Askr’s and Embla’s conflict.

“I said I’m fine!” The table shakes at Kiran’s sudden outburst. He feels the tea seep into the sleeves of his overcoat and he feels something drip down his palm—blood.

He’s stunned. He hadn’t expected that reaction from himself.

“That certainly doesn’t look fine.” Virion’s surprisingly unperturbed despite Kiran’s outburst and the shattered state of Kiran’s teacup. The saucer underneath is fractured as well, the pink camellia pattern cracked down the center.

Virion places his teacup onto the soaked wood (his saucer had fallen during the outburst). There’s not much use in worrying about tea rings or spills if the table is soaked alongside the broken pastries.

He wordlessly stands before taking Kiran’s hand and leading him to the bed. He pats a spot, and Kiran sits. He doesn’t really want to antagonize Virion further. He’s already made a mess of his room and of Virion’s (fifth) favorite tea set.

Wordlessly, Virion rummages through the drawers of his bedside dresser, the clinking of objects and closing wood the only sounds in the room.

Sunlight streams into the room from the windows and yet, it feels more oppressive than anything else. It is not comforting.

Finally, he pulls out a small box and opens it—a first aid kit.

“Hold out your hand, palm up.” Virion, hand outstretched, wiggles his fingers a bit. His other hand holds a pair of tiny, metal tweezers.

Kiran complies, and he is surprised to see bits of white embedded in the skin. He had not felt anything.

It was an unfortunate day to not wear his gloves, nonetheless.

Perhaps it was Virion’s status as his first Hero, the guilt of his outburst (and Robin’s words and Lucius’s kindness), a deluge of stress, or even just a combination of issues, but Kiran talks then, as Virion picks the shards out of his bleeding flesh.

He does not even know if he’s making sense in his rambling, but he talks.

He talks about Robin’s accusations, his worries about Veronica and Embla, Anna and Askr’s expectations, he even talks about his own world—the war, university, his parents. It’s everything.

Kiran doesn’t even know if Virion is listening. He cannot bear it if he isn’t.

It continues even as all the shards in his hand are pulled out, a disinfectant is applied, and Virion securely binds the cleaned wound with medical gauze.

Kiran only pauses when Virion motions for his other hand before continuing again.

It’s the same sort of motions again. He—wincing—talks as Virion pries the pale pink pieces of porcelain out. He talks even as Virion finishes wrapping his other hand, and only stops when his voice is hoarse from overuse.

Virion doesn’t interrupt him once.

It’s only a few moments after finishing that Virion speaks.

“Do you wish to hear my opinion on everything? I certainly wouldn’t hold it against you if you didn’t.”

Kiran hesitates before nodding affirmatively. Robin’s words flash once again in his mind.

“There are many matters that I will not pretend to understand—your previous world is one of them.” Kiran flinches at that.

Noticing Kiran’s reaction, Virion elaborates, “But, that does not mean I cannot emphasize. If it causes one pain, then it causes pain; it does not matter the source.”

There’s a sense of relief at that.

“You remind me of my daughter actually.” Kiran’s a bit surprised to learn of that. He didn’t think this Virion was married; he hadn’t mentioned it at all. Though, there are many things that Kiran doesn’t hear.

“She’s somewhat guarded, prickly some would say, and they wouldn’t be wrong—“Virion chuckles fondly at that, a personal joke”—but she often means well, even if her methods are not the best suited.”

“Furthermore, Robin may have reacted harshly, but please do not hold it against him. It is not his normal conduct. Lucius reminds him of someone—maybe you will summon him one day—and it stoked his emotions. He does not speak to intentionally harm.”

“However, he is partially correct in his assessment. In particular, you must treat Lucius better. As fine a Summoner as you are, it is not befitting to hold such a prejudice.”

Kiran, hands folded in his lap, doesn’t reply. He merely looks at his bandaged hands.

There is a tense silence before Virion speaks again.

“Though, I do wish you hadn’t taken your frustrations out on my poor tea set!”

It’s somewhat in poor taste and poorly timed, but Kiran cracks a small smile, relieved at the silence breaking.

“Nonetheless, we have certainly gone over time, and you have duties to attend to, yes? I can tidy up.”

Virion’s right, and Kiran almost leaves before Robin’s words once again, pass through his mind.

“No, I can stay. It was my fault. I can clean it.”

There’s a flash of surprise on Virion’s face, but it is not there for long before it changes to a small smile.

“Very well, but let me help you.”

Kiran ends up swabbing up the tea while Virion sweeps. It’s a quick affair with two people, though the table would most likely need to be replaced.

They do not talk much as they work, and it is only as Kiran is leaving that Kiran remembers to speak.

“Thank you.”

He hopes Virion hears him.

They meet again for tea the following week, and the new table is made of mahogany.

* * *

It starts off small, Kiran ends up spending more time with various Heroes and works his way from there. He listens to Odin’s bluster, learns to brew tea with Jakob, and goes along with Nowi’s games.

He learns that Cordelia and Olivia tutor Nino in literacy, about Saizo’s and Gaius’s strange rivalry (if it could be called that. It amounted to nothing more than their disagreement over sweets.), and many other quirks and relationships.

He learns about Tiki the younger’s penchant for scarves—the more colorful, the more beloved—and her daily outings into town with Lucina and Selena.

There are many things that he learns about the people that live in the castle.

And of course, he spends more time with Lucius outside of his required visitations. He ends up waking up earlier (earlier than his 7 a.m. constant anyway) to visit the man in the infirmary. There’s surprise at first of course, but it’s easily replaced by quiet delight. Lucius doesn’t comment on his bandaged hands or slightly stained sleeves.

(The servants had washed the majority of the tea out, though not all. Anna had offered to commission another overcoat, but Kiran had refused.)

It becomes a common sight to see Lucius and Kiran in the infirmary in the early morning, before the sun shone.

(At first, Kiran thought that Lucius slept in the infirmary. He has never seen him return to his room. Granted, he had not exactly been attentive to those sorts of thing. It is only when Lucius casually mentions the view from his bedroom’s window that Kiran realizes that his belief’s incorrectness. Though, Kiran never quite arrives before Lucius. Somehow, the man, excluding the occasional patient, was always the first one in the room on almost any given day.)

It is still uncomfortable for Kiran of course. He is not exactly entirely comfortable with Lucius’s presence—years of social conditioning didn’t go away in a day no matter how heartfelt a conversation is. But, baby steps and all.

(He is _not_ going to ponder why he does. That went to areas that he was even further uncomfortable with.)

At least, Lucius does not seem to mind much if Kiran keeps a slightly farther distance than was normal or if he leans away from Lucius’s touch. Or perhaps, he simply does not notice or chooses to ignore it to keep the peace. Either way, Kiran appreciates it.

Kiran ends up helping him with his herbalism endeavors. It’s nothing major of course; he merely fetches any item that he requests from the cabinets. He’s not always correct in what he retrieves, but he appreciates that Lucius never seemed to mock him if he fetched the wrong herb or the wrong instrument.

(He is fairly fond of Lucius’s smile. It’s friendly and honest, unguarded. It is a pretty smile in Kiran’s opinion.)

They end up talking in these moments as Lucius works and Kiran gathers. Their topics are just as varied as during Kiran’s errand runs.

It is easy to talk to him, even if they didn’t agree on every subject.

It is both comforting and startling.

* * *

Weeks later, they have their next major operation.

Lucius, at Robin’s suggestion, ends up in Kiran’s unit for the next world they visit. Kiran is the Order’s official tactician of course, but Robin’s (and by extension, the other tacticians’) suggestions carried substantial weight. They were legendary tacticians after all.

If Kiran had a knack for tactics, he had certainly traded his ability for horseback riding for it. Months later and he still wasn’t used to it. Even with riding breeches and tall boots, the activity still rubbed the skin on his inner calves raw. Furthermore, it seemed as if most horses disliked him on sight. At most, they only tolerated him for short periods of time.

Thus, Anna had assigned him Árvakr; she is a pretty mare, primarily white with brown speckling around her eyes and ears and a silvery mane. A real pedigree if Kiran had to guess. But, her best traits are her tolerance and calmness; she didn’t attempt to buck or kick him. They weren’t a perfect pair; Árvakr could only tolerate so much, but she’s much better than some of the other horses that Kiran had ridden.

They travel to the World of Awakening, and it ends up being one of the longer campaigns.

That is in part, due to the enemy tactician. Whether due to fate’s sense of irony or coincidence, the opposing tactician is Robin rather than Reflet. And a result, it is arguably worse.

(They were identical when it came to their prowess in strategy, but their slight personality differences made for a difference in how they approached things.)

Thus, Kiran’s woken up in the middle of the by the sound of a horn—Anna’s signal for an incoming or in-progress ambush—and the blaze of the palisades and tents.

There is not much he can do but grab his coat and Breidablik and rush outside of his tent as it begins to smoke. The camp isn’t faring much better; it’s not total disorder, but it’s not ideal either.

The majority of the horses are loose, trampling tents and unlucky soldiers alike. He can see Lyn in the distance, engaging with another swordsman—most likely this world’s Lon’qu by the color of his hair and garb. Through the fog and smoke that blotted the sky, he can see blurry shapes darting and meeting and separating —pterippi, Askrian and Heroes, engaged with the Emblians.

So that was how they had gotten pass the patrols and caltrops. He could piece it together because of his tutoring sessions with Robin.

It is a risky, almost suicidal maneuver, but Robin had used the fog to advance his pterippus riders, most of whom probably carried a set of incendiary arrows. Those types of arrows weren’t useful when it came to piercing armor, but they were excellent for causing discord among enemy ranks.

Furthermore, the Emblian fliers could not see below them, but neither could the Askrian-aligned archers see above. They had to depend entirely on their own fliers to engage.

It was a maneuver based entirely on Robin’s understanding of his world’s terrain and human behavior—the ideal locations for barracks, tents, cargo trains, everything.

He cannot help them of course; he is not a fighter. Even with a dagger, he most likely could not defend himself in any meaningful capacity. His interference would be only met with capture or perhaps death.

(It is a bit insulting actually, and it burns a bit at his pride, but there is not much he can do about it at the moment.)

Thus, he covers his mouth and nose with the sleeve of his coat and runs. He darts between both clashing Heroes and soldiers. Akin to a rabbit in a forest fire, he is rush of frantic white in sooty black and harrowing reds and browns—no magnificent hero but simply civilian. Around him, the world splinters, small explosions of glass and shrapnel and noxious liquid as the fliers overhead drop their cargo inbetween bouts.

Robin is a strange man, too different from his storybook incarnate.

To his relief and a testament to his luck, the first Hero he meets is a friendly one—it is Lucius. He meets him near the medical tents.

At the sight of Kiran, Lucius, with his mouth covered by his cloak and with his staff in hand, quickly runs over.

There is not much he can do but essentially huddle behind Lucius—following him to be more exact—and wait for the siege to end. He cannot issue commands with the smoke—whether through vocal or visual means.

So, he follows.

* * *

Lucius is an adept fighter to Kiran’s surprise. Of course, he had assumed some proficiency with spells and magic; most healers had some form of offensive magic. But he had not expected to see Lucius swinging his staff like a bludgeon as well.

It is quite a sight in all honesty. 

Though Lucius’s goal is not to fight but rather, to guide Kiran to safety. Combat isn’t his main priority.

It still does not stop him from cracking an Emblian soldier’s skull open when he tries to impale Kiran with a lance though.

* * *

The ambush ends roughly ten minutes later with an Emblian retreat. Though, repairs and assessments take much longer than that.

Despite the fires and enemy soldiers rampaging through the camp, there’s not too many causalities. Instead, it’s primarily their supplies and lodgings that take a hit. Their fliers were relatively well-off as well; that was the benefit of having multiple legendary fliers.

(Kiran assumes that that was due to the contract. Despite Robin’s assault, he doubts that the man wants to serve Princess Veronica. He most likely hadn’t used the full extent of his abilities.)

He sees Anna frown as she assesses the damage.

“Most of our current supplies are unsalvageable, and I’d doubt any of the nearby villages would want to help. We don’t exactly look “local” and pillaging isn’t really our style. Furthermore, it’s unfortunate, but we’ll have to move camp as well.”

She calls over one of the less injured fliers then—Catria—and issues a command to check up on few of the other stations—the supply lines as it were. They didn’t have many in the World of Awakening nor were they spread out—they weren’t invaders after all—but they were still a necessary part of the campaign.

From his position on one of the few remaining benches, Kiran sees Catria nod before she goes to find her pterippus. Catria couldn’t visit them all in one night, but she didn’t have to. As long as she could visit one, the others could start sending their own messengers and supplies.

“Are you alright?”

Kiran hears Lucius’s voice behind him, and he turns to face him.

“Yes, thank you.”

Maybe it’s the leftover adrenaline, the lack of sleep (ambushes often caused that), or simply Lucius’s actions in the skirmish, but Kiran’s next statement is a spur-of-the-moment sort of thing.

“You were amazing.”

The astonishment is obvious, but it quickly changes to happiness.

“Thank you. Though I do wish I had one of my light tomes. I have always been more proficient with light magic than with a stave.”

Lucius smiles widely at his compliment, and his statement is as close to boasting as the priest could get.

At Lucius’s expression, Kiran feels his heart clench.

(He still doesn’t want to analyze why.)

Though it’s soon gone when he turns to watch the soldiers carry the dead out of camp for burial.

Noticing Kiran’s gaze, he asks, “Loathsome, isn’t it? Such a loss of life.”

Kiran nods at that.

“Fighting, war, it is a monstrous, purposeless event is it not? It brings nothing but pain.”

“I think war has its purposes. There are some things that cannot be solved without it.”

He didn’t think it was too controversial of an opinion, but apparently it is. Lucius’s frown is there once again.

“Truly?”

There’s not much else to say so he nods. Lucius looks ready to respond once again, when someone calls out to him—one of the other healers.

Thus, Lucius bids him a temporary goodbye and goes to tend to the wounded.

And so, that conversations ends up unfinished, at least for the moment.

* * *

The rest of the campaign is a maze of both failures and victories, but they eventually succeed in liberating the Ylissian Heroes from Veronica’s grasp. More often than not, Kiran ended up near Lucius during each battle. It is strange how things seemed to work out.

Returning to Askr Castle, he almost wants to punch Robin. Of course, the Robin he had met in the World of Awakening hadn’t been _their_ Robin, but it was more of the concept than anything else. It had been a terrible month filled with guerrilla warfare and various snares.

Kiran has also eaten more dried meat and hardtack in a month than he would like to in a lifetime.

But he doesn’t. Instead he merely takes to sulking during their sessions.

Not that Robin minds much, he merely laughs and pats him on the back.

“At least you won against me, right? You’re still here after all.”

It is a relatively good consolation prize, but that didn’t stop his sulking entirely.

* * *

It is during the morning a week after that things begin to change. Kiran’s not sure why he asked, but Lucius is happy enough to oblige. He is fairly certain that Lucius didn’t mind anyway.

(He knows why of course. He’s useless in battle, ones where the din roared above what he could scream and the smoke covered the signal flags. But rather, he doesn’t understand why he would ask Lucius.)

He asks Lucius to teach him salve-making.

His first few attempts are abysmal: too much beeswax, too little meadowsweet, and so forth. He overheats, he overfills, he confuses the recipes.

He doesn’t understand how Lucius could memorize them all.

But, Lucius is a patient teacher. He waits for Kiran, doesn’t scold or become annoyed with him. Instead, he simply gives instructions on how to improve on the next attempt.

(Kiran’s a bit jealous on how easily Lucius made it look. He knew when to adjust the flame, when to take the pan off of the heat; he pours the mixture into the containers evenly—perfectly even. He rarely even needed to measure—able to gauge by sight and weight.)

He continues speaking with Lucius, and he ends up visiting the man much more often, outside of his morning hours and throughout the day. He even begins assigning him to the same unit as himself; Lucius becomes a constant common sight in Kiran’s main lineup.

He becomes something akin to a comfort for Kiran, someone to look forward to.

(Though if asked, Kiran would say that it was an admiration—one shared between colleagues—rather than anything more. It’s easier in that sense. It doesn’t burn like perdition.)

* * *

Though, their viewpoints on war still conflicted.

There are certain matters that Kiran stands firm on, and war is one of them.

* * *

“But you agree that war is a necessity?”

Kiran’s question, despite its softness, comes as shrill as a blade in evening’s dusk, like opening up fresh stitches, and he watches as Lucius’s hands still from their current work before the man turns his chair to face him.

There is a calmness etched onto his face, and Kiran notes how the infirmary’s glow sharpen his eyes from a stormless sea to aching abyss.

(He almost wishes that Lucius would scream at him, argue and argue until he’s hoarse, articulate his anger or annoyance with actions, something—anything that he’s used to—anything but the calmness that he now portrays, as if he’s seen enough men with the same notions and fancies. He doesn’t want to understand the faint tiredness that seems engraved into the other man’s being.)

The candles melt, orange-hued beeswax dripping onto dark wrought iron, and the flames flicker lightly, each sway like a grandfather clock’s hour hand, once, twice, and thrice before Lucius answers.

“I believe that war, that needless death, is a final resort. It is not an inevitability, but rather, a consequence of men’s failings and the deterioration of language and diplomacy.”

Kiran almost fidgets under the intensity of Lucius’s gaze, but he doesn’t. He cannot, not without losing his resolve.

“Then, what if it’s for liberty?” Kiran stares at the gray stone behind Lucius’s head and the dim orange that dances along the walls.

“For people who cannot escape oppression without help? Should we just leave them to die then? Leave their leaders in control?”

Lucius is inscrutable.

“As human beings, we are obligated to support and aid one another, but how can one person or group decide another nation’s fate when most cannot fairly regulate their own ki—"

Kiran interrupts, “But you just s—"

Lucius raises a hand, and Kiran stops.

“War is not a finality. It is not an end to suffering nor is it a bandage for injustice. It is an act that brings great pain to everyone involved, and it scars both the land and its people.”

That isn’t quite the answer that Kiran expects, and as the man finishes, Kiran cannot help but raise his voice slightly.

“So you think people should just tolerate it, the atrocities? Let others step on them just because you don’t want more unneeded” — Kiran makes a pair of air quotes around that, and it’s a bit immature honestly, but he doesn’t quite care at this point — “death? What about the future then? Should their children wait patiently for their turn at it?”

Kiran continues for a while, his voice steadily rising as his mood turns to a fever pitch, until it is audible to anyone who might pass by the door.

Behind Lucius, the glass flasks —coconut oil and dried calendula and lavender petals are among the few items Kiran can identify—shake slightly from the noise.

In a way, it is fortunate that they’re the only two there. The recent skirmishes with Embla had been light on both injuries and causalities for Askr. Consequently, many of the other healers had retired early from their duties for the evening.

Or, they had been dismissed early under the pretense of a “reward” for good work, but Kiran would never admit to that. Individuals like Sakura, whose characters held an inclination towards kindness and self-sacrifice, would have most likely insisted to stay up, to help create more medicinal poultices and the like, if it had been a simple dismissal with no pretense.

Perhaps, they would help to mend the staffs as well, rebalancing their magics and tidying up cracks and scratches in the polished wood, or to hem up tears in various garments, whatever was damaged in their previous clashes. Most healers never seemed to stop, their duties extending far beyond what Kiran was used to from his world. Rather than duties being separated by role and purpose, everyone seemed required to contribute as much as possible.

It went unsaid as well, but some were still children, and all too much younger him. Even if they were considered adults in Askr, and even if they saw more actual combat than him, they needed more rest in his opinion.

(He had attempted to dismiss Lucius too, but the man was stubborn. After a while, Kiran had given up on attempting to control his actions in matters involving altruism and curatives. He would have simply just snuck the herbs and bottles and oils into his quarters one way or another and worked there. It was easier to just let the other work here as he pleased, less hassle and less “missing” ingredients for Anna to complain about as well.)

He rambles on and loses himself a bit. He’s not sure if he’s even making any sort of sense to Lucius, but he continues his outburst— high on both a perceived righteousness and a sense of rightness — until he eventually stops, slightly breathless yet still blazing brightly.

Lucius is patient throughout it, and as Kiran finishes, he speaks again.

“That is not the meaning I meant to convey. Rather, I believe that one should help on an individual basis, or on a smaller scale.”

Lucius pauses for a moment, as if to gather his thoughts, and continues, “Further, how can one trust that any intervening country has only the other’s best interests in heart and not their own? I do not believe that men are inherently evil — it’s quite the opposite actually — but a nation’s subjects should have the ability to decide their own fate, whether that leads to revolution or otherwise.”

Kiran cannot help but argue still, “If they’re fighting for freedom, shouldn’t someone intervene then? You cannot honestly believe that both sides are equal? Freedom is an inherent right for everyone.”

“How do you decide which is just then? If one faction were to act, and act horrendously in the name of self-determination, is it justified, simply because of a call to freedom? What if freedom is pretense for a bid to power, and misplaced charisma guides revolutionaries to execute a fair lord and overturn a favorable reign? Or if it results in the deaths of many and the gain of few?”

Kiran opens his mouth, ready to counter once more, before Lucius interrupts, unperturbed.

“Kiran.”

He’s a bit surprised at the use of his name, at its sudden usage, and at the strange feeling of hearing Lucius use his name rather than the usual “Tactician” or “Summoner” he’s come to expect from everyone here.

It’s not at all unpleasant to hear his name said in Lucius’s soft, agreeable voice and to listen to how he emphasizes the second syllable, almost breathy, but it’s strangely stirring. It’s this oddness that he finds discomforting, but it disappears as quickly as it came before he can analyze it in any sufficient capacity.

“You have good intentions, and a good heart”—Lucius stands from his chair then—“But you need to understand other people more before you decide on absolutes.”

Not waiting for a response, he turns back to his worktable and scrutinizes the contents laid out before finally settling on a modest wooden container the size of someone’s palm and hickory in coloring. Turning to face Kiran once more, he places the box, not unkindly or forcibly, into the other’s hand.

“Here, you’re still unused to riding on horseback, yes? This balm will help with the soreness. Rub a small dollop onto the affected areas once every night, before you retire and after you’ve washed.”

He pats Kiran’s hand once before gently closing his fingers around the container, as if urging him to keep it. His eyes are softer, less intense than before. They are a light blue in hue, like morning mist after spring’s first rainstorm.

At that thought, there’s that sense of oddness again, and Kiran feels like he should recoil at the other man’s touch, but he doesn’t. Instead, he merely tightens his grasp on the gift.

Lucius continues with his explanation, unaware of Kiran’s restlessness. Kiran only half-listens to him, only catching a word or sentence here and there, of how the balm contained willow bark or something of that sort. He’s more acutely aware of how soft the other man’s hands are on his own, and how the sleeves of Lucius’s robes brush lightly against his knuckles as he talks.

It's nice in a way he cannot explain, and to his alarm, he finds that he doesn’t really want to pull away.

Kiran only snaps to attention again when Lucius pats his hand once more.

“Did you understand everything?”

Kiran nods, more of a reflex than anything else, and he can feel the satisfaction radiate off of Lucius.

“Good. I apologize if it seems like I’m circumventing our discussion, but I had been meaning to give you this since our last conversation.”

He gives a small nod towards the balm before continuing.

“Furthermore, it is getting late as well, and you still have that meeting with Robin and Soren tomorrow, right? You need to rest. If you wish to further discuss this matter, we can continue it on a later day, when we are both more refreshed.”

Lucius lets go of his hand then and goes back to his chair, still intent on continuing his work. Kiran almost wants to urge him to stop, to clean up his workspace and just continue on another date and with more daylight. But, he stops himself, not out of indignation at Lucius’s previous comment or anything of that sort but rather, out of a sense of hesitation.

(Righteousness tended to have that sort of effect; It tended to make one near-impervious to criticism and near-certain in one’s own beliefs and the fallacy of another’s.)

Instead, he merely tightens his grip on the balm and leaves, shutting the infirmary’s door quietly behind him as he does.

Moreover, Lucius is a stubborn man in many aspects, and he doubts that his words would persuade him. They are not particularly close despite their strangely frequent conversations.

Kiran’s footsteps are soft as he, balm still clutched tightly in hand, makes his way back towards his sleeping quarters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For me, much of the style for the early chapters is rather different from what I normally prefer and use, but this is a rather experimental piece for me--made both for fun and for me to see what I enjoy in writing. I don't particularly enjoy the quick pace of everything, but it works with what I intend to imply with Kiran's mental state. He is a rather narrow-minded and focused--even delusional if one wished to go that far to describe him--sort, and preconceptions+appearances+assumptions are a rather large theme of this work for Kiran and everyone around him. For him, focusing in on what interests him means that everything else falls to the wayside. In my opinion, the work is more of an insight into Kiran's mind; however, some of the more "interesting" bits of Zenith are given or implied in dialogue or actions. Not everything he perceives is an objective insight nor is everything said necessarily "correct."  
> Additionally, some of the later ones are massive (10k+ words) and so is the total word count hence why I cannot edit everything with my current obligations. I also want to get to the more "interesting" (for me anyway) parts. As a side note, many of the poems chosen, while reflective of the chapter, are also chosen because of their poets's lives. Dickinson often dealt with the themes of liberation, societal expectation, and life itself. With the chosen poets, they deal with some aspect that I find relevant. Each poem and its corresponding poet offers some insight into this work.


	4. Hunger Artist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ultimately, growth requires practical experience rather than simply knowledge from books. Kiran finds that Zenith is not as idyllic as he would like it to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is taken from Franz Kafka's "Hunger Artist." Kafka's a particularly delightful writer and one of my favorites. He's someone I would recommend if you would like to start with writing from the Modernism era or an almost blunt yet vibrant style of writing.

A thousand mountains cut short the flight of birds,

All trace extinguished of the ten thousand tracks of man.

A solitary boat, an old man in a rush cape and a straw hat

Fishes alone on the cold river in the snow.

— “River Snow,” Liu Zongyuan

Kiran does not use the balm on the first night or the night thereafter. Perhaps it is petty, but it sits on his desk—next to his unread reports and an ink pot. He is not particularly angry at Lucius—the protesters had similar ideas—more annoyed than anything else. Why could he not understand?

He ends up avoiding Lucius for a few days. He is keenly aware of how petty it is, but he needs the time to cool off. Of course, that’s just what he tells himself.

Though, the balm continues to sit on his desk. It both mocks and guilts him. Thus, on the fourth day, he ends up using taking the balm with him to the baths. Despite its size, it feels heavy in his hands.

When he unscrews the top—after his bath and drying off—the cream is light green in color.

It is cool on the redness of his skin.

* * *

He ends up going to the infirmary first thing in the morning. To his surprise, Raigh is there alongside Lucius—both deep in a conversation. Though at the sight of him, Raigh stops and scowls, most likely annoyed at Kiran’s intrusion into their conversation.

There isn’t time for Kiran to speak or to apologize for his interruption before Raigh bids Lucius a brisk farewell. Taking care not to bump into Kiran on the way out, the swish of cloth and the clunk of a closing door are the only remnants of his exit.

By nature, Kiran is curious.

“Why was Raigh here? He normally doesn’t visit this part of the castle.”

He does not understand Raigh’s vitality in general really. It seemed like the youth never got sick or even mildly injured in battle—nothing that would require a visit to the healers. The luck of children perhaps? Or perhaps the luck of the “Dark Magic” that he was prone to spouting about.

(From time to time, Kiran sees him roaming about with Tharja and Rhajat. Perhaps he had simply gotten a hex from them?)

Lucius takes a moment to cap his current project with a cork before he replies.

“Oh, we were discussing the orphanage. It is strange to see him so tall though. The last I saw of him; he only went up to my chest.”

There is a warmth in his voice, an almost (no, not almost) fatherly sort of pride, the kind one got when their children achieved a milestone, whether small or large. It was the sort parents were prone to, the love and rose-tint that came with caring for someone until they bloomed.

But, returning to subject, the orphanage? There was only one orphanage that Kiran associated with Raigh, and it was the one in Araphen, the one that wa—

Oh. _Oh_. That is incredibly unfortunate.

He had not paid as much attention the second tale set in Elibe; he had not been particularly fond of forgone conclusions. Thus, he had skimmed the story at some points, including the epilogue and the sections for characters he had not cared as much for. Lucius—his character anyway—had fallen into the second category.

Kiran had not theorized on Lucius’s ending as much as some other characters. He would not have made the connection that the kindly monk that accompanied Eliwood’s army and the father that died in Araphen were one in the same.

It is uncomfortable to think of someone he knows dying.

Perhaps his discomfort is obvious, but Lucius’s face is full of worry.

“Is something wrong? Did you have an allergic reaction to the balm?”

“N-no, the balm was fine—thank you for it by the way—it’s nothing.”

Lucius is still concerned, but he reluctantly accepts the explanation anyway.

The rest of the visit goes well for the most part. Not too many patients and not too many visits relating to injury. They chat as usual, but it is not quite the same for Kiran. Their discussions today are benign, more focused on their hobbies than anything else. Apparently, Lucius held an interest in botany.

(The most serious injury they had come in was one of the kids, lightly bruised and lightly scraped from roughhousing as children do.)

The busy calm of the infirmary is deafening as a result; there is nothing to distract him.

* * *

Perhaps, it is spurred by seeing Raigh and Lucius together, but Kiran, for the first time since his arrival in Zenith, thinks of his parents.

Had they noticed his absence? Had they even attempted to find him? Or were they glad to be rid of him, glad to be rid of extra expenses and a useless body?

(Image meant that one simply couldn’t abandon a child without rumors starting. There had been rumors about his status as a college dropout and a “starving artist” of course. But, the ones that would replace them if his parents had kicked him out would have been much worst he thinks. It was a religious sort of town, one that placed value on family.)

What would he have done if he had not arrived in Zenith? Would he have remained stagnant? Stuck in a house given only out of obligation rather than love? Would he have succeeded or would he have had withered away into a corpse, found on his literal (and metaphorical) deathbed—pillow adorned with wilted rose petals—when the smell became too horrible to bear?

It haunts him, follows him, footsteps heavy and like a lover’s call, as he makes his way towards the castle courtyard.

* * *

He does not avoid Lucius this time, but he doesn’t necessarily seek him out.

It is strange to consider death. Despite his status as the tactician and therefore his close proximity, it is not something that he considers often. He is not haunted by it in his dreams, his waking moments, or even in the occasional moments when he crossed paths with Reflet and Henry or even Karel.

It—eternity—was simply something he had not thought about, distanced from himself as sane humans do. The concept of death is not ground most treaded upon lightly; it was something to only be explored by the sick, the macabre, and the geniuses.

In part, he is bothered by the idea of the unknown—the concept of an afterlife. Perhaps it is because of his upbringing, but the thought of dying petrifies him. It is the concept of eternal damnation, forgiveness with a price tag, unknowing until one reached St. Peter’s gates and judgement. To be judged by the prying eyes of another rather than the scales, it is a horrifying thought.

It is overwhelming in a way that he doesn’t want to consider.

* * *

Surprisingly the next time they meet out of battle and business, it is in the chapel and more of a chanceful meeting than anything truly purposeful.

It is only chance that he passes by the doorway—hefty mahogany carved with Askr’s insignia and curling rose vines. He does not really understand why he decides to enter—only that he does. They are heavy as he pulls on the brass door handles.

The chapel is a relatively small place, an alcove situated between the eastern gate tower and the soldiers’ sleeping quarters.

Though, despite its size and overall outward appearance, the chapel is no less supplied or well-regarded than any of Askr’s larger churches nor is it any less striking. The stained-glass windows are tall, towering over him and vibrantly otherworldly in their depictions. Enshrined in glass—in the window nearest to the altar—is a woman robed in clear red, her crystalline hand outstretched and her green-stained tome discarded. Across from her on the opposing wall is a man cloaked in fragmented blue—right hand outstretched much like his companion and violet-lit blade dropped at his feet.

Behind the altar, overlooking the pews, is a rose window. A dragon—crafted from white panels— curls around the center pane, its golden shard eyes vigilant for wrongdoing.

There is a sense of wistful familiarity in the chapel. Religious foundations, no matter their affiliation, tended towards a serenity—an ethereal calm that spoke to ages and dreams long past—and to an understanding that man no longer held the physical words for.

It was the sort of place that Kiran often avoided, uncomfortableness as it were.

Thus, he almost leaves—it had been a strange, impulsive decision to enter anyway—until he notices someone kneeling on one of the pew kneelers nearest to the dragon.

It is Lucius of course—hands clasped in wordless prayer, elbows resting on the wood, and head bowed.

The noon light streams through the windows and casts him in a cascade of colors—like warm autumn leaves falling. His hair is light auburn in the glow of the stained glass rather than his normal halo of blond.

It feels like he is intruding on a scene he should not be. It is a foolish thought of course; the chapel was open to everyone. But, it is there, nonetheless. It claws at him.

(Despite the Askrian-specific imagery, the chapel did not adhere to a particular religion, Zenith-based or otherwise. Anna had explained it as a remnant—a leftover from a time before the Order of Heroes was established and the castle had been home to a noble family.)

From its sunlit perch, the dragon glares.

Kiran feels the pinpricks of the dragon’s gaze—its eyes judging and stern. There is a heat in his chest then, burning hotter with each passing moment he stays in the gaze of heaven.

He wants to get out. It would be easy enough as Lucius is the only one present besides himself, and he was absorbed in prayer. The corridors behind him are barren as well—devoid of people.

It would be simple to leave and pretend that he had never entered.

But he does not. Rather he stands there—frozen like a lamb—with the mahogany doors still open and his hand on the grip. The dragon glowers at him—the outsider, the intruder, the sinner—from its roost.

It feels like an hour (though it wasn’t really) before Lucius stands and turns to leave.

Kiran can imagine the surprise on his face (he is too far away to get an accurate look). He had never been outwardly religious nor had he visit the chapel before then.

Though, he does not turn or rush to leave even as Lucius walks towards him.

It is like staring into the sun—mesmerizing, damaging, and destructive.

* * *

Kiran has not thought about religion in a long while—not since his visit to the chapel.

It had been simpler when he was a child—hand clasped in his mother’s and dolled up for Church. Rather, it had been easier to follow along with her. He wasn’t sure why it had stopped in all honesty.

(That is a lie of course, like many of the perceived truths in his life. But like everything else, he buries it yet again—another coffin to seal. Though this time, it is not as simple, not with Lucius around.)

* * *

That night—in the infirmary—he asks about the orphanage.

Lucius, happily enough, obliges.

He ends up hearing about Lucius’s day-to-day life, Raven’s visits, the orphans—Raigh, his twin, and someone named Chad in particular—and about Araphen and its continental neighbors. It is nice to hear Lucius be the one to ramble for once. Normally, Kiran was the one who went on a tangent—moving from subject to subject and from reason to reason like a hummingbird in flight.

When he asks about Raven’s visits, the reason for why is astonishing. The man had given up his quest for vengeance. When he prods further for the reason, he is met with a larger surprise.

It is startling to learn that the Raven present at Askr is much younger—over a decade younger—than the Lucius present with him. It is even more of a surprise to learn that Lucius—despite his youthful face—is thirty-five. Though it doesn’t bother him all too much once the initial shock fades.

It is still Lucius after all.

Kiran had just simply assumed that they had been summoned at similar ages.

(Though, it did raise questions about the other Heroes. Were all of them—the ones who shared a history at least—from similar time periods or different eras?)

However, when Lucius gets to Bern, Kiran’s blood curdles.

“Bern has been advancing as of late.”

Lucius, contemplative, stirs his current concoction, a comfrey-based salve mixture, before pouring it into a small tin container—one of the many that currently sat on the tabletop.

Kiran understands exactly what that detail—Bern’s military movement—entails, and it frightens him.

“Though, I guess it doesn’t matter much here—Embla and Askr have their own concerns after all.”

Lucius muses, as he continues to fill the containers—carefully tipping the mixture into each one, always a centimeter from overflowing. It is a practiced movement from years of salve-making.

“Why don’t you leave?”

Lucius looks at him, and Kiran’s embarrassed at his own suggestion though not enough to retract it.

“And the children?”

“Take them with you?” It is a very weak suggestion and even his own voice lacks confidence.

Lucius just sighs (and Kiran feels like he has had this conversation before) before speaking once more.

“I understand your concern, but my obligations are to the orphanage.”

There is an air of finality (and perhaps, annoyance) to it, and Kiran does not have the courage to push further.

* * *

There is an air of gloom around as he meets Virion for tea and as expected, Virion notices.

“Are you perhaps thinking of smashing another of my tea sets? I would at least appreciate a forewarning so I can supply you with an older set.”

There is no real bite to it—simply a jest on Virion’s part—but Kiran blushes anyway.

(His hands have healed for the most part though the scarring remains. More often than not, they’re covered by his gloves—mistakes canopied like everything else.)

“N-no, not that.”

Virion sips at his tea. He has chosen chamomile today. It is a bit of a strange choice considering the tea’s properties, but Kiran’s not one to question when it comes to trivial matters like this.

“Robin again then? I would have thought summoning Libra would have evened his temperament out but alas…”

“Not that either, Virion. Stop guessing.”

(Robin actually had improved somewhat since Libra’s arrival. He still held that certain lazy, obnoxious air about him, but it was more subdued when compared to his initial arrival, lacking in that peculiar brand of smugness. Additionally, it also helped that Reflet and Katarina had joined in on their tutoring sessions. It was a mix of temperaments rather than simply, just overwhelmingly, choleric.)

Virion hums and ignores his suggestion. Kiran supposes that they’re close enough friends at this point that that was normal. It wasn’t like he a good basis for judgment on those kinds of matters—he had not had friends before coming to Zenith.

“Lucius then?”

At the sight of Kiran’s expression, Virion smiles into his tea and motions for him to speak. Kiran doesn’t have much choice in the matter; Virion would pester him until he had what he wanted. He was that sort of man.

He sighs.

“Yes.”

“And?” Virion gestures for him to continue, impatient.

“I asked him about the orphanage—the one he runs in Elibe and—” Kiran continues his explanation, leaving out the portion about the chapel. Virion did not really need to know about that; he would most likely be content enough with the information about the orphanage, enough to stop prying anyway.

‘—and I feel like I’ve upset him. I didn’t mean to of course. It’s just—I’m worried about him. I mean after Askr’s war finishes…” Kiran trails off, certain that Virion could piece together what he meant.

Virion, for his part, is a good listener, nodding along to Kiran’s explanation.

“Have you’ve tried sincerely apologizing then? If you feel guilt, then an apology will most likely assuage it—alongside any ill will Lucius might feel. Though, I doubt the man would feel any serious malice towards you—it was a simple question, borne out of concern.”

“Apologize?” Kiran’s expression must have been the wrong one because Virion frowns.

“Yes, apologize. Even the greatest of people—such as myself—must apologize from time to time. Do you not apologize?”

Kiran’s a bit defensive at this point.

“I-I do! It’s just—I don’t know where to begin…” It is left unsaid as he trails off, but he doesn’t know where to begin when it came to Lucius. The man befuddled him in multiple ways and for multiple reasons. He makes Kiran question, and he does not particularly enjoy it.

“Start with words.” Virion says it so simply, as if it is easy. It probably is for Virion considering his confidence.

“Perhaps a gift if you feel particularly inclined towards bribery.” There is a wink that comes with that.

And that was the end of that.

* * *

Kiran skips over the gift this time. Though he does takes Virion’s advice for an apology.

Like most of their off-business meetings, they meet in the infirmary. Despite Kiran’s guilt, it is not much different from their normal meetings in all honesty. There is the same chatter—the variety in topics. It feels very much like a normal day.

Though, Kiran doesn’t really know when to start. Would Lucius care? Did he even remember their conversation? Perhaps he would mess up somehow, make it worst?

So, he does it during a lull in the conversation—it is the best place he can think of anyway.

He rambles somewhat he thinks, but he hopes Lucius understands his overall meaning.

“—I didn’t mean to upset you. I was just worried that you would be caught up in the conflict an—” Kiran doesn’t know how to continue that. He didn’t simply worry, he knew that Lucius would die if he stayed in Araphen; it was fact, destiny, whatever one preferred to call it.

(He didn’t really understand when Lucius had become someone important to him. Like before, he feels the heat of the dragon’s gaze and its claws at his heart.)

Though Lucius, perhaps sensing his hesitance in continuing, speaks.

“I was not upset.” Kiran feels a sense of relief at that. “Though, I do appreciate your apology.”

Kiran expects it to end then, but to his surprise, Lucius continues.

“However, I still cannot abandon the orphanage.”

Kiran deflates at that, though he doesn’t express it. That would defeat the point of his apology after all. He had not expected Lucius to reiterate his resolve so soon. He had expected it of course, but a verbal expression was quite different from a mental assumption.

“When I was three, my mother and father perished. Shortly thereafter, I found myself in an orphanage.”

That stuns Kiran; he had not expected Lucius to reveal something so substantial in a conversation like this.

Noticing his expression, Lucius explains.

“I feel as if we are close enough to where I can speak to you of my past—and the reason for my reluctance to leave. Though if it causes you discomfort—”

“No!” Kiran reddens at that, he had not meant to shout. “ I mean it doesn’t bother me; it shouldn’t. I’m just—just glad you feel comfortable sharing with me.”

Lucius nods before continuing.

“There, I was treated poorly by everyone because of my appearance.”

Kiran feels a pang of guilt there. Hadn’t he avoided Lucius because of his appearance, made assumptions?

(Had he even apologized for that? Kiran can’t quite remember. It has been months—a little under a year— since his arrival in Zenith and their meeting at the mountain altar.)

“In particular, one of my teachers there—he treated me especially cruelly. Poverty and despair does that to a soul.”

He pauses to recollect himself before continuing.

“I wish to ease the pain others, to lighten their burden. Children—they’re especially vulnerable to the world—and I want to shield them from needless suffering.”

It is unsaid, but Kiran understands.

“Thus, I cannot leave. Even if it costs my life, I cannot abandon them.”

Perhaps, it is selfish or self-serving then, but Kiran only nods.

He does not apologize then.

How could one even admit to their wrongdoing directly after a conversation like that?

* * *

He wants to apologize to Lucius, but days turn into weeks.

How did one approach that sort of topic, admit to legitimate guilt and grievances? Did one do it after dinner, before dinner? Perhaps before lunch? Obviously in private, but what else?

It obviously wasn’t at the same magnitude of offense as his orphanage comment; it was objectively worst.

He does not know what to do, and it gnaws at his flesh and at his stomach.

November turns into winter before he finally works up the courage to apologize.

* * *

It takes him five minutes of pacing outside of the infirmary door before he enters, and to his surprise, Lucius isn’t there—a rarity. Instead, it is Lachesis. While similarly blonde, she wasn’t exactly who he was looking for.

The candlelight flickers, long and avaricious, in the shade of the room. The shadows play on Lachesis’s face—sinister yet benign.

And he asks her.

“Lucius? He retired to his room early today. He was not feeling well.”

He thanks her and makes his way out and to Lucius’s sleeping quarters—the shadows dancing and cackling alongside him on the stone. He has to apologize tonight, before he lost his bravo.

He makes his way pass the sunset painting, walks up the stone stairs and pass the entrance of the library before he finally arrives at Lucius’s room.

He hesitates at the door.

Should he really apologize? It was something that could potentially ruin their friendship.

But was Kiran’s friendship really worth anything if he couldn’t be honest? Was he deserving of Lucius’s friendship if he couldn’t even apologize for his mistakes?

(Robin’s words from months ago echo in his mind. He really had not taken care of Lucius. It couldn’t be called care if he wasn’t authentic.)

Thus, he knocks thrice before he hears Lucius’s voice answer.

The inside of Lucius’s room is sparsely decorated. There is a loosely filled bookcase in the corner near the window. A potted plant—leaves lively swaying in the cool night air—sits on the windowsill. The walls are bereft of decorations.

Next to the bed is a wooden nightstand with a barely melted cream-colored candle—lit and charming.

There is not much in his room if Kiran is honest. He has a desk and a chair and a wardrobe as well of course, but it lacked any sort of defining items. No notes, no scattered books, not even some of Lucius’s salve materials. Perhaps they were in the drawers, but Kiran doubts that. He has been with Lucius on most days, and the man’s workspace was often littered with objects—colorful vials arbitrarily arranged, a plethora of bound herbs, the list went on—sorted in a way where only he could locate a material in an instance.

It is not as fanciful as Virion’s room or as cluttered with books and notes as Robin’s.

It is simple, almost unlived in, and for whatever reason that makes Kiran’s heart ache.

On the room’s rare inhabitant, he is tucked into bed, underneath a wool blanket and back resting against the headboard. His hands are crossed over his covered lap and a book is discarded by his side.

“Did you need something, Kiran?”

(There is his name again. It is sweet, burning molten, when Lucius says it.)

“If it is about my absence, I apologize. I simply did not feel up to task tonight.” There is a weak smile at that.

Kiran shakes his head before speaking.

“No, I came to”—he lingers on that a moment, hesitant, before finishing, words lilting softer—“make an apology.”

Lucius tilts his head slightly.

“For what?”

“For”—it’s hard to get out, to say in the quiet glow of the of the room—“how I treated you—when we first met, I mean, afterwards as well. I-I wasn’t sincere, and”—his throat is tightening up then, but he has to finish, for Lucius.

It is not about him in this moment.

“I treated you differently because of your appearance.”

It is somewhat silly when he phrases it like that; it sounds like a topic meant for kindergarten rather than a conversation between two adults. But, Kiran hopes his words, his meaning makes it to Lucius.

Though, Kiran had not expected Lucius’s answer.

“I know.”

“W-what?” He sounds even more like a child then, easily confused and lacking in eloquence.

He reiterates, “I know, and I do not hold it against you. It is…a matter that I am quite used to.”

His smile is forgiving, but Kiran can see the slightest hint of tenseness in it, unnoticeable to anyone who had not spent months in the man’s company. It is a sore topic for him.

Kiran wants to argue then, to blame himself or avoid the truth, but he doesn’t.

He simply admits.

“No, it wasn’t…right. In any part.”

He takes a breath then—inhale then exhale.

“I shouldn’t have treated you like I did. But, I shouldn’t have waited as long as I did to apologize either. I shouldn’t have waited until you confided in me.”

Inhale and exhale. It is a thing taken for granted until the routine is disrupted.

“I…want to ask for your forgiveness.”

His hood is down then and head bent, eyes staring at the floor. It had been difficult enough to look at Lucius during the entire thing—and he simply wasn’t shameless enough to keep doing so.

There is a creak of bed springs, the sound of fabric shuffling, and the light thump of bare feet on stone before Kiran feels a pair of arms enshroud his shoulders and a chin gently rest on the top of his head.

Lucius’s hair tickles his cheeks, and his body is warm despite the chill of the winter night.

(The flames singe his heart, and the shadows wheedle at his soul. He feels like Samael falling willingly into ruination.)

It is enough.

* * *

It becomes easier to talk to Lucius, not that it had particularly difficult before of course. Rather, the air, the atmosphere, around them is lighter, less stilted in a way that had not been noticeable before.

Today, unlike most other days, it is a different setting for them. Rather than the enclosed stone walls of the infirmary, they’re in the castle gardens, waiting for the sunrise.

(He doesn’t really understand why a military fortress would need a garden, but like always, Anna has an answer. According to her, it is simply another leftover from when the fortress was merely a castle, a home for some other noble family. As for why the gardens are continually maintained, it acts as a natural respite for the weary—townsfolk and solider alike. Furthermore, it was simply pretty. There is not much more to it, she had said with a shrug.)

The coniferous trees—pines, cedars, and firs— are shawled in white, all standing proudly tall like madams at a masked ball. They meander around a frosted fishpond—the brittle crystal reflecting hues of violets, orange, and blues. Framing the pond is an expanse of white. A duo of stone benches sat close by, overlooking the pond and its inhabitants.

In the corner of the gardens, near the hedge maze and the storehouse, is a massive apple tree—gangly, brown limbs dusted with Jack’s mischief and outstretched toward the patchwork sky. Underneath it stands a pair of carrot-nosed snowmen—Fae’s and Tiki’s wintery magnum opuses.

(Those carrots would not be missed in all honesty. It is a month and a half before New Year, and their carrot-laden victory prize from the Spring Festival has not even deceased an inch. Kiran is tired of having carrot with every meal. Even carrot cake had lost its appeal; it, like many things in life, is only a treat when one does not have to eat it for every other dessert.)

Askr Castle’s gardens are picturesque in way that wasn’t all too different from one of his mother’s postcards—pristine and ageless like a miniature imitation of Eden or even Paradiso. It is a lovely place and a lovely time—an early December morning, uncommon in its relative mildness and its gentle caress.

It had been a spur-of-the-moment type of occasion, an impulse one often thought up in the moments after escaping Morpheus’s clutches and before rationality’s awakening. It is a simple thing—an invitation extended between friends for idleness—but for Kiran, it causes him a feeling of nervousness—a flutter, a flap of nightingale wings within his thumping, humming heart.

Kiran had almost retracted his offer, certain in its foolishness at Lucius’s pause, before the other man abruptly agreed.

And that was that. He certainly couldn’t have made an excuse after that or even canceled; he was the one who had suggested the idea after all. It would have been incredibly poor manners to cancel after Lucius had cleaned his work space and packed the herbs and flasks back into the cabinets.

(He is quite unsure of what to think of Priscilla’s curious glance or Elise’s bouncing steps, particularly eager as of late.)

The walk through the corridors and towards the gardens had been a quiet one outside of the thrumming of his heart.

The snow crunches under their boots as they made their way towards a bench.

It is awkward at first—silent outside of the distant serenade of the surrounding town and the occasional chirping of winter-borne birds, vigorous and vibrant despite the lulling embrace of nature’s twilight. From the cold, their breathes come out as faint puffs—will-o'-the-wisps given and taken from dust.

He is keenly aware of his own heart: the hum, the thrum, the beat of unfamiliar anxiety.

It is a certain quiet that Kiran couldn’t adapt to, a quiet that lived between the Morning Star and its fading rise. It is a time between Heaven and Earth—present upon Oneiroi’s shifting shores and often isolated from one’s waking remembrances.

It is both comfortable and uncomfortable—an absurdity contrived from meeting familiarity in unfamiliarity. Though, Lucius doesn’t seem to mind, content with simply admiring the scenery—between the rowing clouds and the busywork of flitting birds and amid the airy white.

At his side, Lucius—crowned by the peeking sunrise and the twelve stars—cups his hands to his mouth and blows, whistling breath warming his hands. His cheeks are rosy from the light chill. Outside of that, there is not much noise from him. He is more intent on watching the sunrise.

(Vibrant, vibrant, it whisks his breath away, quicker, easier than any choir hymn.)

Surrounded by the fallen snow and the glimmer of daybreak, he is otherworldly—more fit for a painted canvas, some noble immortalized by one of the Greats, or as an angel serenading than as a mortal man.

It is a calm that should not be broken—unearthly in its normality—but Kiran couldn’t quite help it.

So, he speaks first, his words piercing the air like a holy lance.

Despite the etherealness of the occasion, his questions are simple, bland in their ordinariness, but Lucius answers, nevertheless.

If it is not for the noise of creation and the slight chill that Kiran feels, he would have forgotten the world around them—frosted and nipping rather than the candle-warmed stone of the infirmary.

He almost forgets the original reason for their meeting until he feels a tug on his sleeve and a warmth on his hand as Lucius, with his other hand, points towards the sun. He is almost embarrassed, having lost track of time and the path of Helios.

But, Lucius’s hand is hot on his—warmer, much warmer, than his sight—and he is quite unsure of the reason for why he has not moved (or why Lucius had not withdrawn, having accomplished his task of acquiring his attention).

But in the silence of daybreak—in the world born after glooming twilight—it is easy enough to lay his hand there, on the cold stone and covered by the warmth of another’s.

* * *

It is a late night as Kiran walks towards the infirmary. His footsteps echo faintly on the stone as the candle flames flicker, watching and waiting.

His meeting with the other tacticians had taken much longer than he expected.

(Surprisingly, it is not Robin’s or Soren’s fault this time. Despite Robin’s tendency to rankle his counterpart—it still surprises him how different they are—and Soren’s general prickliness, it is simply a matter of tasks. There had simply been too much to discuss after the emergence of the Tempest.)

He hopes Lucius had not had too long of a wait. Today (or rather, yesterday) had been the date of one of their salve-making lessons.

(He is getting better, he thinks. The colors are starting to appear closer to their appropriate forms, and he had not burned a pan in quite a while. It is progress at the very least, and it is nice to see Lucius’s smile when he succeeds.)

Reaching the door, he knocks on the wood, the sound quite audible in the receding light of the hallway. Though, he doesn’t get a reply—neither a mournful call for Lenore nor even a simple acknowledgement to come in. With some guilt, Kiran delicately turns the knob and pushes, mindful of the hinges’ slight squeaking and the scrape of wood on stone.

As expected, Lucius is asleep at his desk, cheek pressed against his forearm. The candles are (thankfully) put out, the remnants of their last life still present in their fading breath and darkened wicks. With another pang of guilt, Kiran notes the unused materials. On the desk, near the edge, sat a few tins and twine-bound herbs—most likely pushed to the side when Lucius decided on his impromptu nap.

Lucius looks peaceful in sleep, and Kiran couldn’t bring himself to wake the man (nor would he want to). Instead, Kiran draws closer to him, intent on ridding the desk of its containers, flasks, and herbs. He could do at least that much for Lucius; he knows where everything is organized and stored anyway.

Though as he draws closer to the desk and to the man, Kiran notices how Lucius’s chest rose and fell with each breath and how the fabric of his robe fitted against his skin. But in particular, he notices how Lucius’s hair fell on his face and over his eyelids— tresses tousled and untidy from shifting in his sleep.

In that moment, in its abnormality, Kiran wants to brush the blond strands away—tuck them behind his ear, anything so it wouldn’t bother Lucius as he slept. He almost does until he stops—fingertips inches from a stray strand—realizing the oddness of the gesture.

It is a peculiarly intimate sentiment—too intimate—and Kiran flushes, cheeks reddening, at the realization.

He busies himself then with his original purpose—cleaning Lucius’s desk. He carefully tucks the sundries into the crook of his arm and makes his way to the cabinets. Herbs go on the middle shelf, lavender oil on the top, next to the tea seed oil, and so forth. It is easier to fixate on what went where than on the whys.

After a few minutes of tidying, he finishes and almost leaves until he notices Lucius shift.

He is almost worried that he had woken him—disturbed him from a well-earned rest—until Lucius’s breath steadies, and he stills once more, still lost in slumber.

A thought strikes Kiran then, and it makes him nervous, acutely anxious. It is a chilly night, quite unlike the mild morning of the previous day. He did not want him to catch a cold or wake during the middle of the night uncomfortable (as comfortable as a chair could be anyway).

He could have gone to retrieve a blanket, but he is not quite sure where the linen closets are, and most of the servants are gone for the night—gone back home to their warm dinner and cozy beds. For the few that remained, he isn’t quite sure where they would be wandering. Askr Castle is still quite large after all.

He hesitates on his next action before his resolve settles in. Perhaps it is bravado drawn from a lack of sleep, but it does not quite matter in the moment. His morning self could deal with it anyway.

He slips his overcoat off and clutches it tightly in his hands, undecided once more. Would Lucius take offense? Was he overstepping bounds once again?

He is not quite sure even as his body moves for him. Careful to be quickly light as not to disturb him, Kiran gently drapes the coat over Lucius’s shoulders. To his gladness, Lucius stirs not once; he had been afraid that the movement would wake him.

Despite their difference in height, the hem of the coat’s bottom drags slightly on the flooring—most likely due to Lucius’s current position. Otherwise, Kiran doubts that his coat would have reached the floor; he is still (unfortunately) taller after all.

It is a warm coat. Hopefully, it would be a suitable makeshift replacement for the night.

Content, Kiran leaves, careful to shut the door behind him quietly. It is a cold walk back to his sleeping quarters, but it is worth it, he thinks.

At least, for tonight.

* * *

Kiran wakes to a tapping on his chamber door.

By the shy light that cascaded through his window, it had only been a few hours—perhaps five at most—since he had wandered back to his room and fallen into bed—clothes still worn. He had neither bathed nor changed into his nightwear.

As a result, most couldn’t blame Kiran for his groggy and disheveled appearance. The fabric of his turtleneck clung to his sweaty skin, and his pants—more suited for horseback riding than bedtime—felt scratchy on his flesh. If he had a mirror on his bedroom wall, it would have most likely reflected a ruffled look—his hair more akin to a cockatoo rather than its normal straightness and eyes reminiscent of racoon.

Perhaps, as a result, he is a bit irritable as well, answering the door with a bit more force than necessary.

Though to his alarm, it is Lucius. His overcoat is folded neatly and tucked into the curve of his arm.

He seems particularly concerned, unsurprising considering Kiran’s grotesque appearance and irritable demeanor.

“Is this perhaps a bad time?”

Kiran’s cheeks redden as last night’s memories flood back into his mind. He certainly could not back out now; it isn’t like he could rewind time back to hours before.

“N-no, it’s not! I’m sorry”—he rubs the back of his head then, both in embarrassment and as an attempt at smoothing out his hair—“It’s just a bit early, and I wasn’t expecting a visitor.”

Actually, was this Lucius’s first visit to his sleeping quarters? Kiran’s mortified at the thought. He is not exactly presentable at the moment nor is his room. His books, both tactical tomes and casual reading, are strewn and stacked about the place—everywhere except for the bookcase where they belonged.

His bedsheets and quilt are rumpled from his nighttime turning. His desk fares no better, papers clipped together in sets and piled up like a miniature Tower of Babel. Overall, it is a very poor image for the Order of Heroes’ tactician—one that was not exactly representative of him. Normally, his quarters were never this untidy.

Lucius nods before speaking. Thankfully, he doesn’t comment further on Kiran’s appearance nor does he enter, preferring to stand at the entrance.

“I came to return this”—he extends Kiran’s coat to its owner—“and to thank you.”

Kiran reddens further at that, both at the gratitude and at the memory of his actions earlier. In hindsight, it had been a foolish, awkward idea.

“N-no problem!” Kiran wishes he had his coat on. Then, he could simply hide behind his hood. Instead, it is in his hands, and that doesn’t do much good.

Slipping his coat back on, there is not much else to do but bid Lucius a temporary farewell. They would see each other at breakfast in an hour or two anyway.

After closing the door (gently this time), Kiran buries his face into his hands.

How could he have been so awkward? Ever since their time in the gardens, he has been nothing but odd around Lucius.

It is perplexing, but there is not much more he can do at the moment.

Instead, he simply decides to tidy up his bedroom chamber, starting with his desk and its scattered stacks.

That is easy enough, and he does not want to be caught unaware the next time a guest showed up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm starting to finally get to the chapters where the literary and religious allusions and such are the heaviest.  
> There is the obvious theme of guilt underlying everything, and I think Kafka's a rather excellent choice for this chapter's title considering how his life played out and how his works utilize everything. I was gonna pick "Metamorphosis" instead for a later chapter but that was too cliche honestly (more so than what I put out anyway). As an aside, the reference to rose petals upon the pillow (more accurately that section) is more specifically to Faulkner's "A Rose for Emily," one of my favorite short stories that deal with secrets, class relations and the collapse of an era, and death. Though, there is no actual rose in the story. There's also the burgeoning religious blasphemy that Kiran's guilty of that becomes more obvious this chapter. "twelve stars," for example is a motif found in Baroque art, and it's commonly associated with immortality and more relevantly for this, the Madonna, or Mary the Mother, in some pieces. What that says about Kiran is up to interpretation; I certainly have my own answers, but I think it's more fun as a reader to decide on your own. Similarly, there are other themes like loneliness and expression coming into play; look at what Kiran says in comparison to what he does.
> 
> Honestly though, you can find hundreds of references and literary device usage in this fic--symbolism, motifs, references to the arts, literature, history, and concepts like dramaturgy--if you are inclined to. For this fic, think of it like Moby Dick with its idea of expression and explanations of whale-hunting but nowhere near as well-written (and with much less whale-hunting). 
> 
> It's rather elaborate for a fanfic I think, but whatever. As an aside, the Nifl siblings, Anna+Alfonse, and everyone else do play larger roles, but that's in the later chapters. I wish Ao3 had a secondary character spot for tagging, but they don't. I'd like to tag Corrin and Robin as well, but I feel like I should only do that once their role becomes more apparent. Alongside that, the ingredients for what Lucius uses are actual ingredients you can find in balms, poultices, and such. It is not my area of expertise unfortunately hence why it is rather vague.
> 
> As a rather unrelated side note, I did finish my Maddening run of Crimson Flower. Honestly, it's too easy outside of the final map (which punishes teams with too many grounded units and honestly feels like the Maddening version wasn't play-tested; cheesed it with 5 consecutive Raging Storms, quad Brave Axe Wyvern Lord M!Byleth, and the warp+stride method). Wasn't as fond of CF as BL, but I do think Hubert's and Edelgard's relationship and dynamic is the star of the route. Honestly, the best ending for the two for me because of the themes and ideas that permeate it+how bittersweet it is for their joined story.
> 
> And final aside, I did actually consult the timeline of Elibe for everything.


	5. Blasted Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ultimately, growth requires practical experience rather than simply knowledge from books. Kiran finds that Zenith is not as idyllic as he would like it to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's title comes from the Romantics, more specifically one of the most famous usages of the phrase with Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. Lovely novel and one of the best western classics in my opinion in how everything is written and tied together; it was (and is still) rather revolutionary and "shocking" to the public as well upon release. Mary Shelly, by no exaggeration, was a genius surrounded by genius (Godwin, Wollstonecraft, Lord Byron, and so forth). She started Frankenstein at age eighteen and published at twenty.
> 
> As another note, we're roughly little under a quarter through of this and as a result of length and my real-life obligations, I will only be doing very cursory reads of this and upcoming chapters. I do not have a beta, and everything is done by me. Please forgive any mistakes.

For I have known them all already, known them all:

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying fall

Beneath the music from a farther room.

So how should I presume?

— “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” T. S. Eliot

Deciding on gifts for everyone is a trying task, and it is not particularly helped by his time limit. He only has twenty-five days left until the Winter Festival.

(He had first heard about it from Sharena, her excitement at the holiday abundantly clear in her voice and mannerisms. Until then, he had forgotten about Christmas. Though, it is not quite called that in Zenith. Sharena had only given a blank look when he had called it that. Though, he should have expected that. There was no reason for that particular version of the holiday to form here.)

For the most part, it is due to his reluctance to repeat items; it—the Winter Festival—did not quite feel as special if he just thoughtlessly bought everyone the same gift. Of course, it is quite difficult (for both his creativity and his wallet) with over one hundred fifty people present, but he makes do as best as he can.

Though, he does cheat a bit. Not all of his gifts are particularly deep or symbolic. For example, he buys Fae a deer antler headband and a puffy fur-lined child’s cape from one of the town merchants. It is not that he thinks less of her than the others, but rather, he thinks that she would have preferred something simple, something cute over a poem or something of that ilk.

In a similar vein of thinking, he buys the younger Tiki a mantle, deep red with tan accents, and Nowi a muted pink ribbon and a matching winter shawl.

It is getting colder after all, and Maneketes—at least in their draconic forms—are coldblooded. He thinks anyway. He is not one hundred percent sure how the transformation works, especially with all three coming from different worlds and the variations in their draconic appearances.

However, they are still both pretty garments in his opinion, cheerfully endearing.

The merchant he had bought them from had thought so at least. The woman had been tenacious and incredibly charismatic when it came to marketing. If Alfonse—sensing an impending scam—had not called him over to browse the nearby fruit stand, Kiran’s sure his wallet would have been much lighter.

(Thankfully, Anna pays him a salary, a sizable one as well. It is a surprising yet no less welcomed perk of his position.)

For others like Gaius or Lucina, it is simple enough to visit one of the town’s confectioners to commission a box of assorted chocolates—pale whites, dark browns, and milky hazels formed into miniature bite-sized replicas of his cloak’s bear pin—or one of the local tailors for a colorful scarf.

But for others like Karel or Legion, it is a daunting task.

(On that particular occasion, he had eventually settled on a whetstone. He is not sure if the Wo Dao blade ever dulled, but it is the thought that counts, he thinks. For Legion, it was a still a matter up for consideration.)

However, in particular, he finds it difficult to decide on a gift for Lucius.

It is not the type of item that he finds confounding, but rather, Kiran simply does not know what to paint for him. Would a sunrise—akin to the one they saw a few days prior—be acceptable, adored even? Or would Lucius simply thank him in his normal manner, kind and polite but not necessarily awed? Would it simply be a gift that one politely accepted and then cast away into a dark corner, never to be thrown away because of some social rule of etiquette?

Perhaps a sunset instead? Maybe the ocean? He had enjoyed their visit to the beach back in the summer after all.

The possibilities are vast, and Kiran does not quite know what to paint. Some ideas feel trivial while others would be difficult because of the timing or location. He simply could not use funding and resources for a beach time visit—in winter no less. Outside of simple wastefulness, he could not exactly keep his reason for wanting to go a secret. Most excuses would not work either.

That is part of the problem with working with a shrewd miser and an energetic, entirely too inquisitive, extrovert. Secrets could not exactly stay as they were.

(Alfonse would most likely be the only one to not outwardly question him, and even then, Kiran could imagine him raising an eyebrow at the idea of “wintertime beach fun” as a reward for the Heroes.)

Of course, he had thought of simply painting a portrait—perhaps of Raven and Raigh or even of Lucius himself—but he had never been quite as good at those as he was at natural scenes. His portraits often held too many failings, imperfections bordering the macabre—too uncanny, too lacking in everything but the technical, and so forth. Kiran could not quite capture the charm of a breathing, living, human individual like he could with the natural environment.

(He could ask Libra for lessons, but Kiran did not quite think he would have understood it in time for the Winter Festival, not with the Order’s daily work and the task of selecting and procuring the other Heroes’ gifts. After all, he had only learned of the Winter Festival a month and a half ago.)

Or perhaps, he could choose something else entirely? Indecisiveness seems to be his norm lately, especially in matters concerning Lucius. Why? Like his gift, Kiran is not particularly sure on that either.

Kiran fiddles with the cloth ribbon of his current project—pale pink and blooming like a summer chrysanthemum—and thinks.

Deftly pulling the curls of the fabric loose—it is not quite up to his standards—Kiran finds it easier to think than to ponder.

* * *

On the following day, he picks up Virion’s gift or rather, if one wanted to be more accurate, half of it. It is a Xiangqi folding board—polished and carved from beechwood and finished with an oil coating.

It is a remarkable, skillfully cut and painted with care. If Kiran had been a more dimwitted man, he would almost mistake it for a factory-made good rather than as a product of a master craftsman. It is especially apparent after the man—remarkably young for his apparent skill—had simply nodded after receiving his specifications, somewhat vague from being drawn out of a dusty recess of his mind, like a lass’s childhood doll found in the attic.

Though, the accompanying pieces would not be finished until next week.

The board and pieces are expensive, having been handmade according to Kiran’s rough estimates and specifications rather than mass-produced. Not to mention, the materials themselves. In particular, the pieces had been difficult to find. Or rather, it had been the carver that had been difficult to find. If the carver existed, the material would follow soon after.

Jade is not the easiest material to find, especially in a world like Zenith. He had only learned of its existence in Zenith because of a footnote in one of the castle library’s history books—a mention of jade as good luck charm, a favored talisman of some lady general of old.

(That is one thing he sort of missed from his world if Veritas listened. He missed the convenience of things—the ease in which one could procure necessities, whether for play or for need.)

It, the book, had been the spark needed for Virion’s gift. The man held a keen interest in board games, especially for the tactical sort, and Xiangqi did not seem to be a game that he was familiar with. At the very least, Virion did not seem to have one on hand; he had not brought a board out during their teatimes anyway.

(Before Xiangqi, he had considered Hnefatafl. At least he had until Alfonse had pulled out a board after one particular tactics meeting. Whether unfortunate or fortunate, Kiran had almost immediately lost once he had begun playing. Despite Alfonse’s serious demeanor or perhaps as a result of it, he was merciless when it came to the game. Though, he could not quite beat Katarina in the round after.)

Kiran does not believe himself to be an expert on the game, Xiangqi, but he at the very least, knew the rules, or a memory of them.

Watersmeet’s library had had a Xiangqi strategy book lodged on one of its shelves, and in a moment of boredom, he had checked it out, read it cover to cover. It was not the most interesting read or something that one would recommend to a beginner but he had finished it at least. He has a sense of the rules, more technical than practical.

Of course, jade is not a requirement for the pieces, but Kiran is insistent on it, both for the aesthetic and for the expensiveness of it. He wants something that would clearly show his appreciation, and money was often the easiest way for a gift to shine.

It is a bit cynical to think of it that way, but it is simply a given truth in Kiran’s opinion. It is not the sort of thing meant to disparage, but rather to enhance.

Though it had not increased the weight of his depleting coin purse.

* * *

“If you do not mind my curiosity, what is your world like?”

Lucius’s question startles Kiran from his thoughts—an increasing regularity these days.

His eyes are expectant, shimmering with curiosity in the gloom of dusk.

On his table, a bundle of loosely tied lavender sits beside a lonesome flask. Unlike most other days, Lucius had not unpacked much—most of his herbs and tools remained safety tucked away in their designated cabinets, to be used on another day.

Kiran is almost at a lost then. How would he answer? It is not that he is offended, but how did one go about describing a world that they never really had to think about, the normality of everything that would seem strange to another?

How would he explain cars, television, the concept of celebrities or guns? For that matter, where would he start? Should he start with the more important matters or would it be easier to simply star with and elaborate on his day-to-day life (as drab as it was)? Would he need to give a basis, a history of his world, for everything to make sense?

Perhaps it was a bit patronizing of him. Lucius was a smart man, one who had lived through a war and continually provided for others, one entirely capable of understanding and piecing together whatever haphazard hodgepodge he could put together as an explanation.

But, as he thought a bit more, how could he explain the scope of atrocities and history-defining events like the Industrial Revolution?

There is no such thing as dragons, provoked to madness by their cursed blood, in his world or even malevolent gods or mystical items. Legends certainly but not reality. There is nothing to really justify anything, nothing to push individuals, civilizations, forward, nothing except for their own choices and the whimsical favor of luck, whether wanted or unwanted.

In the end, there is only humans and ambitions and the chime of discovery and godsent ideals.

It is frustrating, flustering to think about.

Perhaps he pauses for too long, but Lucius speaks again.

“You do not have to answer if it is an uncomfortable topic.” It is soft, amicable, comforting like the hum of a cathedral organ, neither spiteful nor annoyed. It is oppressive in the flickering candle flame, welcomed yet pervasive.

There is a furl in his chest, one he would have liked to blame on the muggiest of a summer’s waning night or the inquisitive gaze of a peeking autumn moon, but he couldn’t.

Perhaps six or perhaps eight months ahead he would, but in this moment, he could not, not for lack of temptation, but simply because the world was not in his favor.

“N-no”—there is the stuttering again—“I’m just unsure on where to begin.”

The moments afterwards are awkward, or at the very least, awkward for Kiran. That seemed to be a common occurrence lately.

He takes a few moments to gather himself. He does not really want to start on the entirely mundane nor on anything wholly too graphic and complicated—he is relatively well-read but never really an expert on the intricacies of history, the whys and hows of everything and of mortal men.

That does not leave much to talk about in all honesty—fluff and fairy’s dust.

He rolls the ideas through his mind, contemplating and discarding and moving inbetween the notions like an indecisive child, keen on chocolate yet still craving frosted cake. He does not want to bore Lucius or swindle him of his time with fanciful and foolish pleasantries—more fit for passing strangers and idle elevator conversation than for what they currently were.

He does not want to hold up the other man as well. As patient as he was, Kiran did not want to hold him up with the silence and the night’s caressing chill—damning yet comforting.

Thus, he eventually settles on the subject of religion. It is not his first choice, but it is a familiar, (uncomfortable) topic—both unearthly yet terribly common—for the both of them.

Well, the uncomfortable part was more to Kiran’s benefit than for anyone else.

It is a subject that he could and willingly would avoid the bigger issues on—the Great Schism, the Crusades, and near-countless other events, tiny, soundless, blips in the overall scheme of the universe yet all-encompassing for humanity.

He thinks Lucius could piece together—infer—the whys and hows of everything himself though he would most likely be too polite to comment.

The presence of denominations and classifications would hint to such. Kiran is not dimwitted enough to think Lucius is naive enough to miss such a clue nor that he would assume that harmony would exist in such an expansive organization.

It certainly had not existed in Lucius’s own encounters.

Perhaps it is because it is Lucius or perhaps it is because it is a familiar pastime—that of word-crafting—but Kiran finds his words flow easier despite the subject matter.

Unsurprisingly or not, Kiran starts with Genesis and with Adam and Eve. In part, his choice stems from the familiarity of the story, one that his mother (and sometimes, his father) often read to him when he was younger—before he became self-proficient.

Furthermore, for Kiran, it is simply easier to start with a topic that some would consider fictitious, a fantasy for the less educated or for the incredibly idealistic. Not for its simplicity or because of some sort of patronization for religion but simply because it is the sort of story that he could compartmentalize and separate from his own reality.

While some considered it to be truth, spun from the skillful hands of Clotho or perhaps by Urðr or some other higher being, it is still an event—a creation story—that was far-flung from the present of Kiran, like a rock released from a sling. It is a story that both held significance yet didn’t, akin to water flowing through a fisherman’s swelling net. Simply, it could not affect him in a way cemented its genuineness.

Finally, it, as something not entirely rooted in factual history, lent itself more to Kiran’s style of storytelling and to embellishment. He did not have to understand, or rather, overthink, the intricacies of it. No warfare tactics, no conjecture on human behavior or rationality, nothing except the narrative—already given, clay needing shape.

He simply has to tell a story, form something from the bits of human thought and history meshed into time’s fabrication.

He is Aruru forming Enkidu, Athena breathing life into clay, Scheherazade regaling Shahryar.

In that moment, he is simply a storyteller—not Askr’s tactician, not the Summoner, or even just Kiran. He is merely a vehicle for one of humanity’s inherent traditions, its unspoken words, its feelings, its history unerased by time or conflict.

Kiran stumbles in his words, stuttering from time to time over terms he would have no problem with if the situation were different. His tongue slips on vowels, catches on the hard “C’s,” forgets words he otherwise wouldn’t.

He is more used to writing his ideas out—his stories on paper, ink scratching and graphite smearing into the dead of night and morning and midday—rather than verbalizing them to another person.

Lucius, for his part, does not laugh at him or motion for him to stop. He listens, sometimes asking for clarification.

(Kiran did not think he would. Lucius is not that sort of person, if he ever was. Kiran certainly couldn’t imagine that. But, that did not mean the fear merely ceased to exist. It is naturally human to fear mockery and rejection.)

Perhaps he stretches the tale longer than he should (for everything could be summarized in a few sentences, as could be attested to by countless priests and laymen), but Kiran, to his astonishment, finds himself enjoying the occasion. It is not as uncomfortable or as difficult as he thought it would be.

Despite language failing him, it is enjoyable, pleasurable even, to share his thoughts—his craft really—with another. It is a sort of intimacy that surprises him, astonishes him with both its pleasure and the yearning for human intimacy.

Instead, he finds himself dreading the end, the chapter closing.

Perhaps he describes the serpent’s scales more than necessary, a lulling sheen of blue green like dew on spring grass at daybreak, the mossy colors flecking the mushroom tops and the grassy, flowering hillsides, the rivers and ponds, miniature cosmos swirling beneath nature’s looking glass.

He describes the garden, the world as it was during creation, the loneliness of a creator. It is long-winded, lacking in the refinement of a final draft.

(That was another perk of writing over speaking. He could edit as he go or perhaps at the end if it suited him. He could even change outcomes if the turn of time was nonsensical. If an event or character was unsuited to his tastes he could simply change them into something more favorable, predictable—an almost infinite amount of attempts for each occasion, only limited by his imagination and patience. He had no such thing when it came to real people—not characters. There was no forgiveness if one messed up.)

He continues, hands gesturing and shadows moving—casted puppets shaking along with the strings of his melody. He talks of the temptation, of the fruit and morality, of original sin and cold flame and isolation.

It is easy enough to fall into normalcy, into routine and into the brimstone lake.

* * *

To Kiran’s delight (and embarrassment), Lucius does not seem to mind listening to his ramblings. Of course, they have their daily conversations and chitchats (and those were a particular delight), but for Kiran, stories were a different matter, something personal. It wasn’t particularly helped that these specific stories, aided by his embellishment, were related to faith.

Kiran’s relationship to religion is not particularly spotless nor was it particularly troubled. There had been no major, earthshaking event that had robbed him of his belief, nothing cataclysmic like a parent’s untimely death or the discovery of a fatal, terminal disease. There was no failure of deliverance, prayers unanswered and pleas unanswerable.

Of course, he had prayed during his youth, during his stays at the hospital, but it had been more of repetition, a taught mimicry rather than anything serious. It had been a child’s gullible prayer rather than one that held the gravity and desperation of an adult. For Kiran, his health had not been anything other than normalcy, an irritating sort of normalcy but still normalcy.

He did not have any of the more serious diseases, the ones that he sometimes saw wheeled about. In comparison, his life could be considered idyllic.

(Though, now that he thought about it, his health was much better in Zenith than it had ever been on earth. While his hospital stays had decreased as he had grown older, they had never entirely dissipated. It is a bit of an oddity now that he considered it, one that he had so far ignored in favor of the excitement of Askr and its magic. Perhaps it was the magic?)

Rather, he had simply drifted, drawn into himself. Perhaps it had been a long, insidious process or merely day’s progression, but the reasons did not matter as the situation stood.

How could he reconcile the idea of transmigration and magic with the laws of his own world? Not to mention the idea of multiple worlds (timelines even) and a temporary death.

(Sigurd’s allusions to his own demise and his frequent visitations to Seliph and Deidre were not lost on Kiran.)

He certainly could not answer that nor did he want to contemplate it. It was simply a cause for a headache.

Of course, it had been a scandal of sorts when he stopped attending church, an aggravation and stain on his parents’ reputation. It wasn’t like he could change it either. In that sort of environment, everyone knew everyone, especially in a town where Catholicism was a rarity rather than the norm.

His mother had attempted to ease the consequences of course, as was her natural course manner. First, it had simply been excuses—new medication that left him bedridden, a visit to a nonexistent cousin or aunt, and so forth. It wasn’t particularly compliant with what they were taught, but that was the sort of thing that pervaded their particular community—appearance intertwined with truth.

Kiran certainly had not minded her attempts. He much preferred his novels anyway. Everything was laid out in stories—flaws, virtues, history and future. Nothing changed, and the course was set—literary predestination. No matter how complex a character or story was, one could pull back the layers, peel the layers off like a paring knife on an apple, and reveal their core, their essence.

There is no such thing in the present, and that bothered him.

His father had been different. Unlike his mother, his father was a more upfront man, straightforward and honest. He was a lenient man by all accounts, easygoing in almost every way except for a few.

Religion happened to be one of them.

He had yelled, not enough to alert the neighbors of course, but enough to pierce the thin door that separated Kiran from the outside. He had not banged on the door (with his father’s burliness and size—the very picture of the all-American man—his fist would have most likely gone through the door). He had merely shouted at him, spoke of discipline and religious—familial—obligation

Back then, Kiran had done the best to drown him out, binding himself to his novels. He was young—still is young—and like all youth, assured in his own rightness and prone to his own whims, justified or otherwise.

His father had not laid hands on him when he had left his room for dinner nor did he speak to him. It had been an awkward sort of time, one that he would have avoided if he was less keen on etiquette.

His father had tried a few more times, the same shouting every Sunday, until one noon, he simply stopped. It had been both a blessing and a shame. Kiran had not enjoyed the shouting of course, but his father had been much more distant after that—a phantom, a figment that held the skin of his father.

His mother had nudged him towards his father, and Kiran had refused, intentionally avoided situations where they would have existed together in the same sphere. It had been particularly difficult to do so as Kiran had lived in the same house, shared the same utilities, but, to him, it had would have been much harder to reconcile. That was simply the manner of humans.

It was simply easier to avoid problems rather than to face them head-on. It was hard to confront and to reconcile. It is hard to be human.

(It startles him. When had he begun to think of his parents in the past tense? They weren’t dead by any account that he knew of. Though, as he considers, would his parents miss him? He was their only child of course, but they had not exactly parted on good terms. He finds himself remembering simple, almost inconsequential notions—his mother’s cooking, the mahogany bookshelf his father built for him, and the warmth of a parent’s hug.)

It had been unnoticeable before, drowned out by isolation and writing, but there is an almost ache in his heart. He will not admit that he is wrong of course. He certainly does not think he is for simply making life decisions.

But, it burns his heart heavy, incapable of escaping the scale’s weighing.

It is difficult to decide when his parents’ love had become conditional. Certainly, one was taught that a parent never withdrew their support or love for their child, no matter the fault or situation. One was further taught that a bond between child and parent never severed. Even with death, it simply turned into a yearning, a bittersweet bond flavored by rose-pink memories and remembrances of lily-white childhood.

But that had obviously proved to be a false statement.

It hurts to think about, and he wishes he had not stumbled into the infirmary that day. It had been simple enough when Zenith held its magic and his attention.

But as much as he wishes to forget—to overlook—once more, the ink can no longer draw him into its embrace.

* * *

Kiran ends up drafting in-between meetings and the hustle of preparations for the Winter Festival.

(It becomes a common sight to see Kiran, ink and parchment in hand, scribbling. In these moments, he misses the pens of his word. Unlike quills, they did not quite dry as quickly or need as much as decisiveness in thought.)

It is a bit silly to draft pre-existing stories, but it is a consequence of Kiran’s nature.

It is especially silly to memorize and recite them to himself in his room, but Kiran had been embarrassed. After the excitement and adrenaline had worn off, thoughts—embarrassment—had plagued him, little pinpricks of his mistakes and places that he could have done better.

They are ancient things, lyrics and psalms spoken besides the winding Nile and to the setting sun, passing from tongue to tongue and in quill ink to printing press. They are murmurs of an older time—faded cloak, colored by each retelling and dusted with human passion.

But, in some sense, it does make him feel like one of the scribes of old from his world, recording antiquity by the light of a candle wick. He is both Pravuil and Goethe—both the chronicler and the interpreter.

Of course, that is merely an embellishment in and of itself, both a poison and a panacea. Like many writers, Kiran’s feelings on his own writings exist in duality—Janus in motion, a turning coin. It was a paradox of both pride and shame, certainty in quality and doubt in ability and creativity.

On that particular matter, recreating each biblical tale is both a pleasure and a damnation.

It is easy enough to acknowledge his work (as he had certainly put the effort into it) as a derivative, but that is both a benefit and a hindrance. He has the basis, the ideas necessary alongside his own additions, but simply, it is not purely his. It is both a frustration and a relief, once again stemming from the paradox of the author—the desire to create, to make something fantastical and new, an impossible task by default.

One built from the successes of their predecessors in the art—the thoughts, the passions, the universal urge for creation, to play as God. Yet, one also wanted to distinguish their being entirely from them, to take the role of prideful Samael casting away his chains.

It is a foolish task of course. Every writer is influenced by something or someone or another, but it is a journey that every creator inevitably embarked on—the search for acknowledgement and individuality in barren world, plucked clean by their forefathers and the genius few.

It is an old frustration of Kiran. One wanted to be unique, but it was a certainty and necessity to be compared to the likes of Faust, Cicero, and a plethora of other literary immortals.

To be a writer was to accept the fate of comparison.

It was an inevitable sort of thing. A writer, decent or otherwise, often came into the craft because of a love for words, a need to give voice to the churning sea that existed only in their mind. By extension, one needed to understand not only their own self but also the selves of another.

Achilles, Jia Baoyu, Vasusena.

Whether one looked towards Wen Qu and his sixfold constellation or perhaps swan attended Saraswati for inspiration, the results remained the same—one needed to understand, to peer into the lifetimes of another, to speak.

To gaze towards the aloft stars and dance as the bear did, that was the fate of those who wrote.

* * *

The religion of his world remains a strained topic, but it is a bit easier as he continues.

Among them—joined just by the two and attended only by nosy spirits and the dancing dark—he shares the stories of Ruth and her devotion, of Azazel and the Grigori, and of the Red Sea’s parting. He describes Ruth’s piety, the strength of her heart.

He entertains with tragic arrogance of the Grigori and speaks of divine ordained liberation once more, of a faith he himself did not quite believe in. Each day, he brings a new set of tales.

(Naturally, he understands the nature of Apocrypha, the apparent falseness of it. But, it is useful enough to speak of anyway he thinks. At the very least, it illustrates the nature of the Church and of denominations.)

It is not a one-sided exchange of course, if it ever were (as Kiran quite liked Lucius’s company). In return, Lucius speaks of Elibe, of his religion and of St. Elimine.

Of course, religion is not the only point of their conversations these days (as Kiran still spoke of other novelties from his world), but it dominates, nonetheless.

* * *

The game pieces for Virion’s gift are marvelous, and Kiran finds himself admiring them as he makes his way back to his sleeping quarters. It is a bit foolish. He could bump into someone after all, Virion worst of all, but, Kiran is impatient.

Holding a piece—this one engraved with 仕—between his thumb and forefinger, he admires the rich green of the jade.

The jade carver, a spritely madam, had assured him of their quality and of her skill. Tucked into the corner of what could be considered as the jewelry district, the store had been on the small and plain side, no storefront display or discernable characteristics outside of two shishis standing guard outside the entrance.

Though, that did not stop the owner from crowding up the inside with her wares. The first time Kiran entered the store, he had expected nothing more than a few bobbles and perhaps another shishi statue. Instead, he found a store bustling with goods, both jade and otherwise.

From miniature jade turtles resting besides their fountain ponds to fenghuang perching gracefully on their hand-painted stands to the more mundane jade rabbits and cats, the store seemed more like a zoo than a store. Jade animals, both common and exotic, lined the glass-encased shelves and stood atop carved tables. To the side sat a display of porcelain goods ranging from flower adorned plates and bowls to porcelains figurines, frozen in eternity.

On both occasions, it had been with some difficulty that he had navigated to the crowded counter—smaller knickknacks surrounding a crystalline tree, its twin cranes resting peacefully underneath the translucent leaves and besides the reflective trunk.

Though, unsurprisingly, it had not taken the madam as long to find him or to navigate her own store. Additionally, it had not taken long to explain his request or for her to give an estimate.

Though it had surprised him when she had decided to give him a discount—a small “gift” as she had called it for the Order of Heroes, or rather their tactician.

Holding it now, Kiran is surprised, though no less grateful, for her discount. She certainly could have charged more for her work. The craftsmanship was superb, on both the jade and the accompanying storage box.

(He had asked her about her other wares naturally, about the porcelain and the wooden figurines and the cranes. Those certainly weren’t jade. Thankfully, she had taken his question in good faith rather than as a slight or social faux pas. They were simply imports from some of the surrounding kingdoms, Nifl and the like. Though, there is a hint of pride as she elaborates on the crystal cranes; it was an heirloom, a piece made with jade from Embla, before the borders had closed and the war ignited.)

After rolling the stone inbetween his fingers for a few seconds, Kiran stops and carefully places the game piece back into its cedar chest, marveling at the set before finally closing the lid.

Looking up, Kiran feels a sense of astonishment. It is not because of the fact that he is not in front of his room. Rather, it is because of where he ended up.

Whether through contrived coincidence or some higher fate, he ends up in front of the chapel, its twin doors solemn as if guarding a tomb. The rose vines curl mockingly, botanical serpents.

Perhaps it is due to his recent conversations, but his feet have taken him here and stayed. Kiran finds it is a bit difficult to move, even with his own discomfort driving him. His feet are heavy—like moving through a mound of snow—and his heart races, pounds in its own unwelcomed song.

It is one thing to speak of religion as he does and another entirely to be confronted with it.

He stays there, hands clenched, eyes downcast, and box pressed tightly against his chest, mind urging and body unmoving.

Of course, like all things unpleasant, it always seem to worsen.

“What’s wrong?”

He feels weight—a hand—on his shoulder, and it is a familiar voice. When he looks up, Marth’s eyes are filled with concern. Behind him, the chapel doors swing shut with a heavy thump, omen heavy as any thunderstorm or flap of blackbird wings.

(He had not really taken Marth as a religious sort of man, but it wasn’t like the stories detailed that sort of thing. Religion simply had had no place in his particular war. It simply had not been relevant.)

It takes a few seconds before Kiran replies.

(He does not particularly want Marth—or anyone really—to see him like this, frozen like a newborn lamb in the face of some unseen, primal terror. It is foolish and juvenile how it affects him, like an adolescent’s fear of the dark. It is entirely too unbecoming of an adult, but it is something he cannot control.)

“It’s nothing.”

Unfortunately, Marth has never been one to settle, to backdown when it comes to matters such as this. He was the sort to poke and prod, work away at another’s barriers like a carpenter whittling a toy horse for a child.

He is insistent, unbearably kind, and Kiran almost wants to confide in him, to trust in him. It is almost strange really.

Marth was the sort of man who radiated a particular charisma, a type of charm that could enthrall both the watching stars and the earth. If he asked, there was no doubt that the seas would part for him, that the winds would ease and cease, that the trees would shake—leaves quivering—ready to give up their bounty. If he needed, the night would part her cover happily, to let both the aurora and the winking moon shine upon him.

He was as Solomon was—before his disobedience—beloved.

But, as it were, there is a strangeness.

It was neither in his beauty nor was it in voice, neither a Narcissus nor an Orpheus. Naturally, he was handsome, as expected of a fairy tale-esque prince, but not astonishingly so. His features were elegant, but lacked the cool aloofness that often attracted people to authority. Instead, it is tinted by a slight softness, a product of both breeding and his own intrinsic nature.

But, kindness in itself could not draw others to one’s self.

(As he thinks further on it, it is an oddity. Marth is a remarkable figure—the exemplary white knight in shining armor—but taken as he is, there is nothing that explained his seraphic charm. One wanted to follow him, to speak to him and be spoken to in return, and to be regarded as a companion.)

He was no Daji, beauty capable of rending apart morality and dynasties, nor was he Lord Henry, words serpent-given.

But as they speak, Kiran finds his resistance failing and dreadful eagerness set in. He wants to speak, to pierce the portrait of himself and to step off the world’s stage.

Thankfully, whether due to time constraints or Kiran’s steadfastness, Marth finally relents, instead settling to simply walk with Kiran to his room. It is a relief for Kiran, not ideal but much better than blathering his troubles, his failings to someone like Marth.

It is an awkward walk of sorts, too solemn perhaps and lacking in the usual conversation.

Kiran, unlike most days, finds solace when he reaches his sleeping quarters.

Though as Kiran unlocks the door and steps in, Marth speaks.

“If you ever need to speak to someone, I will always be here.”

He does not need to turn around to know that concern lingers in Marth’s eyes. That was simply the type of man he was, given as the sun rising and the rain falling.

His gratitude is perhaps too quiet, too hurried and too curt, but he hopes Marth doesn’t mind all too much. He hopes it is not misconstrued.

After the door clicks into place, Kiran places the cedar chest on his desk, next to a stack of manuals and paperwork.

His room is neater than it had been last time.

* * *

He collects more gifts as the days pass—a white rabbit’s foot necklace for Arthur, a pear flower hair pin for Kamui, and so forth.

(The peddler had been particularly persuasive. He is not quite sure if the man had been telling the truth about the rabbit’s foot—the date and time of capture, the location, or even simply the type of cord for the necklace. But, he hopes the placebo effect will at the very least, stem Arthur’s misfortune. )

Though, he still had not quite decided on Lucius’s gift. Of course, he had settled for painting—a backup plan for if he failed. It is not ideal, not the gift he would like to give, but it would be worst, in his opinion, to come empty handed.

He takes to sketching out his ideas in the corners of his notes. He is not particularly adept at magic which disqualified the use of a camera tome. He does not particularly want to ask his colleagues (friends?) either.

There would simply be too many questions.

(Sadly, his skill with magic was still below average, rock-bottom. Robin had attempted to teach him in-between quips and lessons, but Kiran did not quite understand it nor did Robin’s pointers help. He could not feel the crackle of electricity pooling into his fingertips, the gentle viciousness of gust forming a gale, or even simply the warm, protective hum of a feeding blaze.

Though, he wonders if Robin even understood his troubles. Robin and by extension, Reflet, were prodigies, tactical geniuses that appeared once an era. They could not understand mediocrity, the inability to advance.)

But while he had settled for painting, he had not quite decided on the scenario, the scene to portray.

There is simply too many places to consider, even discounting impractical areas and restricting to only Askr and its surrounding locales. Furthermore, weather and mood had to be considered. Winter, as beautiful as it stood, held a solemnity to it, a breadth of bittersweetness instinctively understood by and burdened to every being that drew breath.

Winter, as it was, was a time of lost in both nature and in cultural tradition—ingrained into the soul as deeply as any belief or hymn. It was something as old—older than—human existence. It was something that would remain as they returned to the earth and to dust, blanketing their resting plots as a mother would cover a sleeping child.

It was both a comfort and a terror.

As such, he needed to deliberate. He could not choose a place that embodied the best of winter’s ideals, one only tinted, only on the verge of ripening, with the bloom of winter’s kiss. He does not want his gift to spur sadness—fading friendship dyeing the frame, splotches of human melancholy and old memories, sorrow surging beneath the pigments.

It is difficult, especially with his standards, but he wants perfection.

* * *

Kiran takes to wandering Askr. It is not a particularly substantial difference to his routine (considering his normal duties), but it is something to note. He cuts a few minutes here and there from his normal activities and wanders.

(Anna often sent him on tasks around the castle and surrounding locale—a perk of her position as commander. If it wasn’t Anna, it was Sharena. Though in Sharena’s case, he is often dragged along on _her_ tasks and patrols and Hero check-ups rather than his own. He does not particularly mind; her joy and bounciness were contagious.)

He takes care to analyze the environment—the angles, the color composition, and the aesthetic of the location—nothing quite extravagant enough for what he wants.

He scopes out the view from atop of one of Askr castle’s eastern towers, the view of the town’s marketplace, among many others. Nothing fits his taste.

While the eastern tower held a magnificent view of the sunrise, the other particulars of the area were of no interest to him. It was simply too simplistic, rustic in nature. Beyond the town’s boundary, it was simply snow-laden grasslands and frosted trees and the faraway mountains, figures imposing and unmovable.

Furthermore, painting the occasion would simply take too much time. If he were merely an artist with no other obligation, it would be a simple matter. But as it were, he held the position of the Order’s tactician.

The same problem held when he examined the town. Everyone was in constant motion, a blur of daily life. No one held still long enough for him to remember their likeness. Of course, he could simply exaggerate, reimagine the area and the people with his own liberties, but that simply led to another old problem. Kiran simply wasn’t the greatest at capturing human likeness.

(Of course, Anna had somewhat eased up on military duties as the Winter Festival approached, instead focusing efforts there. “Funding opportunities” as she called it. However, that did not mean Kiran was entirely free to wander as he pleased. That was merely another part of his job description; there were many things that required his attention, background tasks and errands and a constant influx of paperwork and reports. Daily routine did not cease, even for the holidays.)

He feels the suffocating pull of deadlines, but there is not much he can do but continue on.

* * *

From his remaining options, there are not too many places left to consider. For the most part, his area of search limited itself to the town and to its surrounding environment. He could not visit the other worlds either. There were no upcoming plans regarding any military drills or excursions, and a sudden visit so close to the holidays would simply inspire ill will in the soldiers.

He knows that one as one-hundred percent fact. He had asked Alfonse after all.

That simply left the surrounding areas as options as he had scoured the town, both in his search of gifts and in his search for the ideal scene.

* * *

There is a week and a half (or more accurately eleven days, twelve hours, and thirty-two minutes) left before the Winter Festival officially commences, and Askr is in a frenzy.

Like a corked and shaken wine bottle, excitement had steadily mounted since Anna’s announcement last month. With more festive decorations appearing and the kitchen staff working tirelessly—savory aromas and spices abound—the holiday had become tangible for many. Rather than as a distant affair, one only thought of as an afterthought in the face of war, it had become something equally as important.

(Of course, there is something a bit more to that. There is a certain sense, nostalgic and longing, in the air, one hidden deeply in the undercurrent of festivities. Perhaps he has gotten better at noticing others’ matters, but Kiran notices how certain Heroes draw together, more so than the usual affairs. In passing moments, Kiran sees how Seliph draws closer to Sigurd, almost timid, as if afraid that his father will turn to flame, and he will wake. In a similar vein, it becomes not uncommon to see particular groups enfold—Ephraim and Eirika and Lyon, Roy and Lilina and their respective fathers, and so forth.

It reminds him of his own family in all honesty, though he doubts that they care to remember him. Was it winter in his world? Were they simply celebrating Christmas without him? Or perhaps time had not passed? He does not particularly want to care, but the thoughts intrude as thoughts often want to do.)

Naturally, excitement is expected for a major festival, akin to a child’s glee at traveling circuses and the holiday cheer of commercialism in his world, but it never blossomed until the world changed. Simply put, a holiday was not made until the appropriate attire was put up—the star-adorned and tinseled tree of December, the cheap candy-filled eggs and costumed rabbit of April, and so forth.

Perhaps it is merely human nature, but holidays needed to be more than just their symbolism—a pizazz that announced their meaning, perhaps distorted but visible.

Of course, Kiran feels the cheer, but it is overturned by an inner panic. He still had not decided on what to paint. Some would call it procrastination, but to Kiran, it simply meant that he had not tried hard enough.

Perhaps that was why he, on Árvakr and canvas and paints in hand (or rather, saddlebag), had wandered passed the town’s borders today and farther than his usual outings. He had told Anna of his plans naturally. He wasn’t foolish enough to venture out alone with no one aware of his location.

(Though, he does not doubt that Anna had sent along one of the ninjas to monitor him anyway. That was simply the sort of person she was. Furthermore, she had agreed to his plans rather easily, a bit unlike her normal self. Even with the numerous patrols about and Kiran’s relatively close proximity to town, she wasn’t one to take chances on these sorts of thing, especially with the border breach a few months back. It is not an ideal situation—he had wanted to travel alone and unknown—but there is not much other choice.)

Árvakr trots along the path easily enough. It is a well-used trail, worn from years of merchant wagons and countless horses and oxen. The trees pass by in an easy blur of speckled green and white, and the snow crunches under his horse’s hooves alongside the thrum of his heart and the quiet trill of flitting fowls.

It is a quiet existence, one devoid of the usual chatter of soldiers, the flap of pterippi wings, and the creaking wheels of the wagons. In the silence of nature, it is easy enough to disconnect from the world—enter the waking dreams of his youth. Árvakr is a clever beast, one capable of following the winding road and alongside the sleepy snowdrops. He wouldn’t have to worry about her wandering away from the path and into the unmarked wilderness.

His thoughts aren’t much to write about. For the most part, it is the common sort of worries—worries of his profession, dinner plans, and plans for tomorrow, uncertain as it was. But simply, as minds oft do when given time to rest, they wander to certain subjects, to the id and to the ego.

His thoughts drift towards Lucius. Why simply, was he so intent on a perfect gift? He values the man’s friendship and his character and his strength, but could he simply not purchase a book on botany in town? Perhaps paint Askr castle at daybreak? Why simply, was he so particular? He was a perfectionist at times of course, but this drive extended much further. He wants to impress the man, to dust his cheeks with the faint rouge of gratitude, and see the quirk of his rosy lips transform into a smile.

It is confounding. Even if the man was one of his first friends, it feels like he was trying too hard.

(Would that be an embarrassment if Lucius found out? Would he think it was too much? Kiran hopes not. He can feel the twinge of embarrassment, the beginning cracks on his heart, at that. Embarrassment was that sort of hammer.)

He does not have to wait much longer until he feels Árvakr snort and stop, jostling him slightly in his saddle.

Looking up, he admires his destination—the abandoned fortress.

* * *

Located to the west of town, it is an impressive place, even in its dilapidated state. Lacking the familiar banners of Askr, the stone walls are scratched and chipped—spiderweb fractures and entangled vines cascading like the work of a particularly industrious spider. On the entrance itself, the wood, despite the dust and scratches, appeared solid—a testament to the craftsmanship.

Leaving Árvakr by the entrance (her training and temperament meant that she likely wouldn’t wander), Kiran, having procured his canvases and paints from one of the saddle bags, walks to the entrance and pulls. To his relief, the door is not bolted from the inside; Kiran did not really want to waste time looking for another entrance in.

The inside of the fortress is not too impressive sadly. For the most part, the previous occupants had cleared everything out. Anything else that might have been left had most likely been taken by scavengers, eager for scrap to sell. Askr wasn’t a particularly poor kingdom, quite the opposite in fact, but that did not mean thievery ceased to exist.

Walking pass the upended and empty weapon racks and pass the greenery covered walls and towards the interior of the fortress, Kiran almost feels a chill. It has nothing to do with the weather (his cloak was well-made after all), and more to do with the location.

For Kiran, it is eerie, an example of nature’s quickness to reclaim her domain and the fleeting nature of creativity and human invention. It had only been abandoned for fifty something odd years, less than a century and less than the years required for reparations.

* * *

In his curiosity, Kiran had asked Alfonse about the fortress once—its skeleton frame visible from Askr Castle. Would it not simply have been better to have both the castle and the fortress act as military bases? Alfonse had simply frowned, not angered but simply due to the tiresomeness of the question. It is one that is frequently asked, but the answer simply amounted to funding and the number of troops. It, in the Order’s current state, was simply easier to maintain a lesser amount of bases but over a larger area—casting a larger net as one would say. They simply did not have the manpower or the necessary number of competent generals needed to spread their forces thinner, especially with Embla’s integration of Heroes into their ranks. Furthermore, it required coin and resources to outfit more soldiers. They could send the soldiers out with training but minimal equipment, but that in itself was a folly.

It was a catch-22 of sorts. They needed more funding, but that couldn’t happen without the Order demonstrating its necessity which in turn required more soldiers. But that in itself could not happen without funding. It would be easy enough for a pragmatist to send underequipped soldiers into the battlefield, but harder to withdraw them safely without casualties.

One could depend on skill alone, but survival depended on luck as well. One could be a genius of war—a modern Zhuge Liang—but fall to a greenhorn’s lucky arrow or a change in winds.

Furthermore, the Order’s necessity was further brought into question by the existence of Askr’s actual army and navy. It had been a constant question at meetings before Kiran’s arrival. Was it really necessary for Askr to maintain multiple military organizations or would it simply be easier to combine them—simplify the chain of command rather than act as a hydra would?

The army was certainly a more popular choice for romantic gentlemen, eager for the honors but less inclined towards frontline conflict. Because of numbers, it was simply easier to join the army and reap the benefits with a smaller chance of longtime deployment to the frontier—a lottery of lives.

Certainly, before Kiran’s arrival, the Order was struggling with its justification for existence. And afterwards, after his summoning, rather than merely buoying, it began to swim. But that in itself was a longwinded explanation of political happenstance and headaches, something Alfonse was disinclined towards explaining.

And Kiran did not really want to bother him further on that, not with the way Alfonse’s brow furrows in annoyance.

* * *

He walks pass the dusty doorways, pass the vacant animal nests, and up towards the second floor and to the third floor. The natural silence unnerves him. Since his arrival in Zenith, noise had surrounded him—the noise of children and animals, of camp preparations, and of human bustle. Here, in this respite of nature, there was simply nothing, only the company of the morning light peeking through the cracks and the sound of his paint pots clinking together as he walks, like harness bells on a Seelie’s mount.

(Even with the mental reassurance that Saizo, or perhaps, Kagero, was most likely watching him, it does not help all too much. There is no voice to guide or levity to distract.)

In these sorts of situations, an active imagination is an enemy, but there is not much he can do about it.

Clutching his canvases closer to his chest, he walks a bit quicker, his imagination running wild. While it was still light outside, it did not help in the tight corridors of the fortress, not when the light created horrid shadows on the walls and cast everything into a gloomy shade.

Kiran certainly does not want to look behind himself either. The fear of seeing something or someone is palpable and in all honesty, he does not know which he fears more, a confirmation of his mind’s fears or the mere sight of nothing, stone corridors and the flickering shadows.

He feels like Jonathan Harker traversing the count’s castle, though, in his case, he has no assurance of a happy ending—the slaying of a monster, invented or otherwise.

Thankfully, to Kiran’s immense relief, the next set of stairs he takes leads up to one of the castle watchtowers and to the outside.

Setting his tools down, he admires the view—a river, lightly crusted with ice and framed by vacant berry bushes and teeming with the dark shadows of swimming fish, snow-cloaked trees dotted with reds, blues, and browns, winter plumage, and the distant mountains of Nifl. Farther beyond the river and nearer towards the tree line, he faintly sees the silhouettes of white-tailed deer.

The heavens shine a deep cerulean blue, wispy white clouds surrounding a brilliant sun. Its rays bath the snow in a pleasant pale orange.

It is a picture worthy of being called sublime. Though, would it be enough?

He certainly did not have a choice in the matter. There is only a mere ten days left, and he had spent a quarter of today’s morning traveling. Furthermore, he would have to start his trek back much earlier, a consequence of winter. The days were exceedingly short.

This wasn’t even to mention the time his painting would need to dry.

Even if he was a procrastinator, he wasn’t foolish enough to come back emptyhanded with so little time left. Even if it was a first draft of the painting, it would be enough at the very least. It would give him a basis to work with.

After opening his paint case and collecting a brush, Kiran centers his first canvas. It is small, though not exceedingly so. The choice of size had been a consequence of necessity; he certainly couldn’t have fit his normal preference into Árvakr’s saddle bags without accumulating damages.

Before beginning, Kiran studies the landscape once more. His current set of paints required mixing, quite unlike the convenience that he is used to in his previous world. He couldn’t simply paint as he go, not with the necessity of mixing pigments and his current location.

Furthermore, he borrowed his current set from Libra. Paints and pigments were not difficult items to acquire in Askr. However, that did not mean they came with carrying cases. Rather, those were reserved for custom orders, requests sent to the leatherworker or the woodcarver rather than bought in a paints shop.

After a few moments, Kiran begins. He mixes the paints and takes care with the brushes. His first few brushstrokes are slow, less decisive than his normal rhythm and more meant to test. Due to his duties, he had not had as much time to practice. Though, as he goes along, his grip becomes firmer, more at ease.

Lacking an easel, it takes him longer for each idea and canvas section, having to stand and look over the watchtower walls rather than a quick glance to the side. Though it is understandable on why he couldn’t bring one. He certainly couldn’t have expected his horse to cart one around after all.

He first lays down a light blue, smothering and quick. The paints of Zenith are quicker to dry than the ones of his own world, though much less so than tempera. It was a strange concoction of sorts, an almost anachronism of his world and Zenith much like the camera tome. He is not quite sure what the pigments’ materials are, but their results are a lovely shade.

He splotches blues—mixes as pale as a robin’s egg to dark as a midnight on the stormy sea and everything between—crisp greys and tawny greens and warm oranges and lurid reds. He moves between larger brushes and smaller brushes and a painting knife, metal gleaming in the light.

From time to time, he brushes his dark hair from his eyes and wipes the sweat from his brow with the edge of his coat’s sleeve. Despite the coolness of the morning, he was still hot, a heat born from his task rather than one garnered from the sun.

His process would seem chaotic to some—the colors mesh and blend and splatter, splotches upon white linen. Though, Kiran is quite sure of what he wants, and eventually, it forms. He blends the rough edges, blends blues into off-whites and into orange and browns. He works on the lighting, the perceived movement of the prancing deer and the dipping birds, and on conveying the moment he seeks.

For what seems like hours, he mixes and blends and considers until simply, it is done, simple as that.

* * *

The more he stares at it, the more he dislikes it.

The colors should be different. The strokes should be different. The lighting should be different.

There is a near-immeasurable amount of mistakes to be found. They should be found.

There are nine days left.

* * *

Today, he is in the castle gardens—paint case held in hand and embarrassingly lost in the hedge maze.

The garden is not one of his normal haunts, and it shows in his ineptitude at navigating the maze.

(Outside of his visit with Lucius, he had not had the time to visit and admire the greenery. On most occasions, the most he had there was a few minutes, minutes spent on the way towards his next destination or in the search of a particular soldier or Hero. There had been no real time to admire the world.)

Normally, he wouldn’t deign to appear here, not for lack of interest but for time. However, he needs to return Libra’s case.

Naturally, returning the case is a priority, and before his current situation, he had been heading towards Libra’s room, intent on the endeavor. Though, passing by a window, he, by chance, had glanced outside and towards the gardens.

Libra’s room is on one of the lower floors, and thus, it is unsurprisingly easier to see the garden in detail Rather than as distant blurs and blobs of color, he had been able to see it as it is—browns and greens dusted in white like frosting on a pastry, the ruddy red of the gardener’s storehouse, and the pale crystal of the mirror pond.

Ordinarily he would simply have admired the view and continued on, but, standing in the center of one of the hedge maze’s rest areas had been Libra.

Perhaps it had been foolish of him (he could have simply waited for Libra to return or even given the case back after dinner after all), but he had gone out.

Now, his decision had become a bit of a regret. Of course, he knows that someone will find him eventually, but it is the loss of time that bothers him.

He continues through the maze, taking lefts and rights and center paths wholly at random. Despite the expansive size of the maze, the foliage walls remained unchanging and pristine, lacking in markers—simultaneously an annoyance and evidence of the gardener’s skill.

(Kiran hopes that he encounters someone soon. Perhaps Nowi or Fae? They often frequented the gardens and the hedge maze. He only hopes that they had not deigned to take a day out to town today.)

Thankfully after what feels like hours of wandering in circles, whether due to divine intervention or mere luck, the next rest area he enters is not devoid of people. Rather, he finds Libra there.

Though he had not expected the other man to be painting, easel standing and canvas centered. Perhaps Libra had set up his work while he had wasted time wandering the maze?

There wasn’t much to see in this section of the hedge maze, however. The flowers are slumbering, tucked beneath a blanket of snow, and the hedges tower, guards to the Sleeping Beauty.

Overhead, the sky rings a clear blue, clouds and birds absent. The geese had long migrated—white wings sailing through the celestial sea and the November rains had long abided to winter. The only one that remained was the sun, the constant companion.

Despite the chunkiness of his steps, only slightly deadened by the crisp snow, and the clinking of the case’s contents, Libra is unaware of his presence, too engrossed in his work.

It almost feels like a waste to interrupt Libra’s concentration, but Kiran couldn’t simply wait there for hours on end.

He did not quite want to be a voyeur either. His tendencies did not extend there.

(Though, he is a bit curious about Libra’s painting. As previously stated, there is not much to paint in this area, nothing but hedges and dormant flora. He couldn’t sneak a peek either, not with how the canvas faces away from him.)

There is a hint of surprise in Libra’s eyes when he clears his throat, but it fades quickly. It is a bit awkward in all actuality, but Kiran is not all too sure on how else to catch his attention.

Libra waves him over, paint brush still held neatly between his fingers.

“My apologies, Kiran.”

Kiran gives a hum of acknowledgement before extending the case. It would be best to return the case as soon as possible to avoid the temptation of committing a social faux pas. It would be embarrassing, he thinks, if he is caught staring.

Though, Libra is quite keen all things considered. He motions for Kiran to place the case near the hedge, next to another paint case and a wooden box—a wet canvas carrier—and away from any potential accidents, and then once more towards the spot next to him.

Kiran’s cheeks redden slightly, but he complies. Was he really that obvious?

(He could blame the redness on the chill of the morning air. There is a cool breeze shuffling the leaves, like the mischievous hand of a sibling ruffling his younger brother’s hair.)

To his surprise, the painting is of Robin, head tilted and soft cheek pressed against his arm and rosy lips quirked into a half-smile. Long, fine lashes frame affectionate eyes, captivating like midnight’s cordial. His pale hair falls gently, framing his face like willow floss. Upon his hair and the table rests cherry blossoms, petals open and nipped from the branch like a prince carrying his stolen bride—most likely flown in by evening’s teasing draft. A warm glow encapsulates him—twilight’s final rays and the waking moon peeking at Venus through the window like a secret suitor.

A few stray papers—reports—line the desk, kept from chasing their lover by the weight of well-read and hastily dogeared tomes. A quill pen, ink droplets dripping from its tip and onto the pages, lies carelessly strewn, perhaps discarded in the portrait figure’s lethargy. Its companion, the glass ink pot, sits on its lonesome in the corner of the desk.

The lighting of the painting—heightened by the depth of color inherent to oil paints—creates a striking picture. Dark shadows and moon-aided candlelight accentuate the curve of his cheeks, the half-lidded drowsiness, the serene allure of his smile.

It is intimate, entirely too intimate.

It is a sort of Robin—any individual really—that he is entirely unused to seeing, peaceful and lacking in humankind’s natural inclinations and and free from the demands of the world.

It is the sort of image that spurs melancholy, a yearning embedded within the recesses of his humming, thrumming heart— like the chords of a master’s cello.

“How does it look? Are there any areas that need improvement?”

Libra’s smooth voice stirs him from his thoughts.

Kiran shakes his head. There is not much he can see wrong with it.

Libra looks satisfied at that.

“Good. It is a gift after all.”

It is short, but not unkind. There is no need to guess who the recipient is either. The subject and intimacy of the portrait makes it clear enough.

He does not think Libra has much more to say. He is a quiet sort of fellow, quiet but not unkind. He does not think there is much more to say either.

Kiran almost bids Libra goodbye when the other man speaks, surprising him.

“How is your painting coming along?”

Hiding his surprise, Kiran replies.

“Good! I think anyway. There's places I’m not really satisfied with though.”

Or more accurately, he is not satisfied with it at all.

“Oh? On what areas?” There is no hint of maliciousness or boastfulness from his statement, merely curiosity. “If you wish, I can, perhaps, give you a few pointers, though you will have to describe to me what you dislike. Sadly, I am not available for more.”

As an explanation, he makes a motion with his free hand towards the easel and towards the paint cases.

Perhaps it is because Libra bears a resemblance to Lucius, but Kiran does not find it too difficult to talk to him. In any case, he could be vague enough anyway. It is not like his work is a portrait of someone; it was merely a landscape.

(Libra bears a resemblance to Lucius, and that is simply a truth. Even their professions are similar, but there are key differences. Libra’s eyes are narrower, lacking in the almost doe-like quality that Lucius’s held, and his shoulders are broader. It is not a statement meant to affront, but Lucius, in particular, held a certain quality to him, an air that made one want to share their worries, to converse with him as equals—kings to kings, peasants to peasants, beast to beast, being to being.)

“The strokes are wrong, and the colors are wrong. I mean, they’re close enough to what I saw, but something feels off. It's not vibrant enough.”

He goes on, highlighting each issue he finds and his grievances with them. Libra, to his credit, listens to his rambling, nodding and contemplative.

When Kiran finishes, Libra speaks.

“As artists—creators as whole really—we are prone to overanalyzing our work, whether justified or otherwise.”

Kiran nods at that. It is an obvious sort of statement, one that every craftsman knew personally, but he does not interrupt.

“While I do believe that particular dilemma is responsible for your current plight, it is not the only culprit.”

Kiran’s interest perks at that.

“As creators, we yearn for acknowledgement—for approval—but contradictorily, we dread it, or rather, we fear the rejection that often comes with it.”

Libra continues, “We place our emotions, our innermost hopes and fears, into our art, and we want others to understand it—or rather, us.”

“However,”—he touches up a spot on the portrait, having noticed some small blemish—“that is an impossible task.”

“Nevertheless, we must persevere, no matter the state of our feelings or reservations on it. It is our inherent responsibility as artists.”

He dabs at another spot with his brush before speaking.

“As with every craft, there is a certain amount of interpretation that goes into the viewing of our creations. Undoubtedly, you are aware of that.”

Kiran nods once again. These are topics that he is keenly aware of, perhaps not Libra’s view on emotions, but everything else had familiar concepts.

He continues, “Ultimately, if one wants to be an artist, we must unveil our hearts to others and accept their final judgement.”

He pauses, and Kiran almost speaks then, until Libra continues, having collected his thoughts.

“However, we, as both the artist and the viewer, must also come to an agreement—we must coexist and strive towards an understanding, no matter how impossible it seems. To do so, we must cultivate a bond, built on earned trust and failed attempts. Even if one succumbs to the fear of rejection and hopelessness, we must persist no matter how our minds, our bodies, refuse to do so.”

Perhaps there is a hint of confusion in Kiran’s eyes, but Libra continues anyway.

“Even if we can never truly understand each other, we must continue to strive, with our best efforts, to understand. That is simply the duty of an artist.”

“No matter your fears, continue onwards towards and pass uncertainty. That is how we grow as individuals.”

Libra continues on for a bit, taking to color theory and the differences in strokes and other similar sorts of topics. Some of it is familiar while others are foreign in nature to Kiran. It is enlightening in all honesty.

Afterwards, he thanks Libra and bids him a farewell.

* * *

Returning his room after dinner, Kiran, with Libra’s advice and his own set of paints, works on touching up his painting. He couldn’t change any major details without scrapping the project entirely, but it does come out a bit better, he thinks.

At the very least, he is somewhat more satisfied with it.

However, Libra’s painting lingers on his mind, not because of its subject—he certainly had enough of Robin’s flair from their tactical meetings and tutoring sessions—but because of the sentiments it conveyed.

The portrait had been beautiful of course, but it is the emotion that truly interests him. It radiated both the charm of the subject and Libra’s intentions, his feelings.

His thoughts wander then. Could he paint Lucius in a similar manner? In a way that conveys the gratitude he feels towards the man? He certainly doesn’t mean in the intimate manner of Libra’s work of course, but he certainly feels drawn to the idea of painting him.

(He is still not quite good with human subjects, but perhaps, he could try, as Libra had urged. The spare materials are still stored under his bed after all.)

He loiters, shuffling the idea from thought to thought, worry to worry.

Ultimately, he pulls the spare canvases out and the easel.

* * *

Under normal circumstances, he would not be walking towards the kitchens for a midnight snack, but his current circumstances are different. Painting had made him peckish, despite his hearty dinner.

(He had worked on his palette first of course—mixing pigments and considering the tone he wants to convey. It wouldn’t do to waste or scrap too many canvases.)

Outside of perhaps a kitchenhand (or Gaius on a late-night sweets robbery), he had not expected to meet anyone in kitchen.

Certainly not Caeda. By her expression, she had not expected him either. In front of her, laid bare, is a set of earthen cookware and an assortment of ingredients—sweet onion, half sliced and bulky, orange carrot mixed with green onion and the earthy brown of potatoes and the tangy smell of cut lemon.

“Oh, summoner! I didn’t expect you here.” Her voice is not all too sheepish despite her words. Instead, she seems quite at home in the kitchen.

His face must have held a hint of curiosity because Caeda continues.

“I am practicing my culinary skills. The Winter Festival is fast approaching, and I want to prepare a meal for Marth.”

Kiran is keenly aware of Caeda’s… culinary skill, but he does not comment. It would be all too rude to do so.

Though, perhaps due to his expression, Caeda laughs lightly, and Kiran blushes.

“Do not worry, Summoner. You have not offended me. I am aware of my shortcomings. That is why I am here at this hour after all.”

She smiles at him reassuringly before frowning slightly.

“Though I do wish I was not the only one here right now. Back in my own world, there was someone who often accompanied me on these sorts of learning endeavors. He was not quite good at domesticity, despite, or perhaps because of, all of his other merits.”

Kiran is a bit curious at that, and Caeda notices.

“You have not summoned him yet, though if you are curious, ask Michalis about him. He will certainly know.”

There is a bit of playfulness in that—a small jest. Kiran does not probe further, but he makes a note to bother Michalis about it later.

Though, Kiran is not quite sure why he offers to stay and practice with her. It is late after all, and he has his own worries to attend to, but he does.

There is a hint of surprise on Caeda’s face, but she accepts his company.

At first, they work in silence—slicing onions, Caeda’s previous focus before Kiran interrupted. It is a bit unnerving to work at midnight in all honestly, his imagination not all too helped by his previous visit to the abandoned fortress.

So, he speaks.

“Why cooking?” He fumbles then before clarifying. “I mean, why this and not something else? There’s a lot of other options for gifts.”

Caeda hums then, contemplative and hands stilled from their tasks. For a few moments, they stand in silence. Kiran almost retracts his question. Perhaps he had offended her? However, Caeda replies then.

“I want to show him my feelings in earnest.”

It is a simple answer, but one that surprises Kiran, nevertheless.

“Cooking is an exceedingly human act. It is something unique to us. We depend on it to live and to thrive. No other species cooks—no spices, no fricassee, no steaming, nothing. None of them cook as we do.”

She slices her half of the onion then. It is clumsy—inexperienced—but still, it is an attempt.

“And to my belief, it is important to share a meal with your loved ones—wife to husband, parent to child, friend to friend. It is an exceptionally significant and entirely human act. It is one of the proofs of a human being, the act of cooking and sharing a meal.”

She frowns slightly at her onion slices. In all honestly, they were a bit pathetic to look at—some thin and soggy and others too large and overly fragrant.

Though, Kiran couldn’t quite say his onions are any better. He knew how to cook for himself, but presentation had never been a huge concern for him. As long as it was edible, he ate. His mother had not cooked for him in a long while.

“No matter the meal, I believe one can convey their feelings, their joys and sorrows and memories, to another through cooking.”

It is a romantic sort of answer but certainly something to ponder. Though, Kiran does not quite expect her question him next.

“It is the same with artists and writers, yes? We want to convey our feelings to those who would care to listen.”

After his initial shock fades, Kiran nods affirmatively.

There is a hint of approval in Caeda’s gaze as she continues speaking, not quite done.

“Good. While my cooking is not”—she pauses for a moment then, a hint of frustration evident in her next word—“ideal. I want to improve for both myself and for others—for him in particular. I want him to understand my feelings, not just in words but in my actions.”

Kiran nods then. It is an understandable desire.

The air afterwards is not quite heavy, but it is not quite suitable for most conversations either.

How did one speak after hearing something like that?

The continue on in primarily silence—hints of small talk and a few tips passed here and there.

After they finish and clean, Caeda thanks him and bids him a warm goodnight.

* * *

Lying in his bed that night (or rather early morning), Kiran could not quite sleep.

Both Libra’s and Caeda’s words resound in his head which would be a matter in and of itself, but rather, he is reminded of his mother. In particular, Caeda’s words had stirred an old memory, a recollection of his childhood.

As a child, his mother had often cooked—soups, stuffed tortellini, anything that caught her interest—with him nearby, lulled into complacency by a jaunty off-tune hum.

She would often give him a small plastic knife—not unlike the ones found in a cafeteria—and a bit of fruit or vegetable to cut.

On some occasions, when she was in a fanciful mood, she would let him pick what to prepare from her cookbook.

It had been an old thing—a heirloom from her father and his mother before him and so forth. The pages had been handstitched and the spine handbound. Some recipes even had an accompanying sketch, though faded and worn from time, of their products.

(She had other cookbooks of course, but that one in particular had been the most memorable for him.)

When he had been younger, not yet old enough to read nor to try every single recipe, he often picked merely based on images.

(To his mother’s bemusement at that time, he had frequently decided on dishes that his father disliked. She cooked them anyway of course. As she had said, before they had ceased contact, his father needed to eat more vegetables anyway.)

When he had grown older, he chose based on his own preferences—apple cobbler or banana walnut bread for dessert, chicken casserole with rice, colcannon potatoes, and so forth.

Though, his most favored and most memorable dish of his mother’s had been beef bourguignon. It had been a specialty dish for his mother, one that she reserved for wintertime. It had been an earnest, filling sort of meal, one that radiated love and warmth—perfect for winter. Even now, at the thought of it, he can feel the chill of his room abide, Jack Frost ceasing in his playful nipping.

He remembers how he would clamber up the varnished stool to stand next to his mother and watch her prepare the ingredients for the dish. On some occasions, she had let him, with her careful supervision, chop the carrots with her chef’s knife. On most occasions, however, he had often been saddled with the duty of peeling the pearl onions. He had not minded all too much at the time though. He had simply been content to help.

It is a happy, complicated sort of memory, faded and worn as a threadbare sweater.

Nonetheless, he had watched her make it for years as a child. It is a recipe—a memory—he knew by heart even if his hands had all but forgotten it.

His dreams that night are troubled by a child’s laughter and an old familiar tune.

* * *

There are seven days left and today, he is haunted by memories and what-ifs.

In particular, Caeda’s thoughts on cooking nibble at him. It had been easy enough to ignore last night when his mind had been tinted with the sedative of sleep.

But now, the idea nips at him.

He thinks his painting, the one created at the fortress, has improved with Libra’s advice, but simply, it still is not enough.

(The portrait—if it could be called that in its current blank state—lies hidden underneath his bed. He is not foolish enough to think that it would be finished in seven days, but he works at it bit by bit.)

He wants to do something more. He wants to cook for Lucius.

He wouldn’t discard the painting of course, but he wants to do something more. He wants to share a memory with him rather than simply gift a glimpse into his thoughts.

It is romantic conjecture conjured by Caeda’s words, but they are something at the very least.

Though, he is not skilled at cooking or even simply practiced at it, unlike with painting and writing.

He wants to try anyway, and that is what scares him.

* * *

He visits Lucius later in the day. On this particular occasion, despite his worries, it is particularly pleasant to see him. They had not had much time to speak, both because of duties and because of the inherent busyness of the holiday season.

His heart trills at the sight of Lucius’s smile, and he feels light—memories cast away like old fishing wire.

Their conversation goes as it always does, well and somewhat aimless, moving topic to topic and voices intermingled.

It is a sweet sort of conversation—each word melting on his tongue like a chocolate square.

However, as their conversation draws to an end, Kiran feels a sort of dread as he remembers the secondary reason for his social call.

Would he see it as too forward? Too assuming? Perhaps, he would simply decline due to a lack of time or interest.

He fidgets slightly, boiling in his discomfort, but he manages the question right as Lucius finishes his explanation on nightshade.

His voice is hurried, cracking slightly in its quickness, and his eyes are lowered, afraid of looking.

It is an all-around embarrassment, one that could not be helped.

It makes his heart burst—a kaleidoscope’s twirling lens—when Lucius agrees.

* * *

Day six and day five pass in a blur and onto day four, and Askr castle’s joy is contagious.

Though, Kiran’s panic is less so. After his initial joy, the panic sets in.

His idea to cook is, by all accounts, a last-minute affair, one that lacked coherent planning.

What would he cook (or rather _how_ would he cook)? What would he pair with the dish? The side dishes?

Furthermore, where would he hold this affair?

(He had simply told Lucius that it was a surprise location, one that he would reveal as the date drew closer. In hindsight, that was a foolish decision, one that created unreasonable expectations.)

At the very least, Caeda has a midnight peer in her self-taught culinary lessons now. That was something.

(Though, it is not like Kiran could skip out, not without turning his slapdash, stupid, _stupid_ plan into an even bigger farce. There is a huge difference between words and actions.)

He is troubled.

* * *

Eventually, he decides on beef bourguignon as the main dish. He remembers it of course. That had not been the problem in his decision making. Rather, it reminds him too much of his mother.

(He does not quite want to remember her nor does he want to remember his father. He does not want to remember his previous life in all honesty. Not Mrs. Davis, not his parents, not even his home address nor the name of his town. He wants to forget everything before, and exist as he is now. He wants to be Peter not Susan. It is a childish sort of want, but it is _his_.)

But there is not much other choice. The other dishes he knows are not all too suited for such an occasion. He certainly couldn’t cook a common chicken casserole and bring it as a main dish. Perhaps, it is simply a leftover of his previous world’s sensibilities, but even the thought feels shameful.

And some other dishes, he simply couldn’t make. He is not shameless enough to blame Lucius for his walnut allergy.

(Thankfully, it is not nothing all too serious—a mere swelling and itchiness. Naturally, he wouldn’t subject Lucius to anything of that sort; he is not callous enough. Furthermore, he feels that such an intentional incident would bring Raven to his bedroom door, an unfavorable affair for everyone involved.)

That left beef bourguignon as the only option. It is something he is familiar with, and it held a more elegant air—it is a dish he would expect to find at a more high-end restaurant.

However, he still does need to find other dishes to pair with it.

* * *

If anyone ever cared to ask, Kiran did not intentionally visit Virion every time he came upon a problem.

It is simply the fact that the man is cleverer and more observant than he ought to be.

Perhaps, he stirred too loudly? For whatever reason, tea always seemed to be the catalyst to their conversations.

(Of course, it—Virion’s ability to notice tells and problems—comes with the territory of being the Duke of Rosanne, but Kiran wouldn’t mention that.)

Whatever the reason, Virion had pestered him until he revealed his troubles.

It had been a brief, idle mention of beef bourguignon, and Virion had perked up. From there, it had simply devolved (or rather, expanded).

It went from wine to wine (half of whom had names Kiran couldn’t even pronounce without biting his tongue), dish to dish, and even which farm from whichever place produced the best beef.

Though, it is not quite as useful when a majority of them only existed on Ylisse. It is not a fact that stops Virion, however. Rather, it merely incentivizes him.

“Perhaps a wine from Nifl then? I am told their red wine is quite excellent, and it pairs nicely with beef.”

Kiran could only nod, confused. He is not well-versed in liquor or their optimal pairings. Despite what his small-town roots would imply, he is not a heavy drinker, having never really held a keen interest in alcohol. He was curious of course, as his nature, but it was never anything more than a passing curiosity, borne out tidbits and rumors he would catch as he walked to his classes.

Even as a teen, he had not felt an urge to drink like his peers did. This was only further compounded by his lack of friends—no social drinking as it were.

When he had finally taken a sip of beer at twenty-one, he had simply spat it out. He had not enjoyed the flavor—a bitter wateriness that coated his throat and stuck to the back of it long after he had rinsed with water. Afterwards, he had simply lost all interest in liquor.

On the meat itself, they eventually decide on a local butcher rather than a one of the surrounding farms. In part, it is because of the practicality.

Undried beef, or any type of fresh meat really, is an expensive ingredient in winter. Most farmers only slaughtered their older cows—lactation having ceased—and even then, that was a late autumn affair, not one scheduled for the winter solstice. Furthermore, beef is a rarity in comparison to fowl, game, and pork; it took more land to raise a cow after all. Most local farmers, having only two or three or perhaps even four, would be unwilling to part with their calves and cattle. The price would be atrocious and furthermore, they did not really need a whole cow.

In comparison, a butcher, while still expensive, offered a finer selection of cuts. Due to the presence and demand of the nobility in town, the local butchers could afford to stock a variety of cuts.

Virion continues, moving onwards to side dishes. Their options are somewhat limited because of Kiran’s (regrettably) poor culinary skills and the current season itself. Every ingredient would have to be procured from the storehouses or, if worst comes to worst, from one of the high-end (astronomically expensive) importers in-town.

(Not many people would take the financial risk of importing goods in wintertime. Even with Askr’s prosperity, bandits, are a perpetual and universal problem. Alongside them, wolves and wyvern, driven by wintertime scarcity, are another concern. It isnot uncommon to hear of some unlucky, distant relative wandering too far from home to hunt and dying in the stead of the beast.

This is not even to mention the landscape itself. If one failed to predict the weather and failed to secure shelter (as is common in these sorts of situations), it often meant a slow death as their organs failed and their fingers froze black—unable to clench around a life-saving flint. Approaching Askr from the north also meant navigating the mountains. While the existence of wyverns mitigated some of the dangers of avalanches, they could only carry so much in comparison to their earthbound counterparts. There did not exist a floating wagon after all. This often relegated these wyvern carriers to specialty orders and a large pay sum.

However, as long as demand, disparity, and desire exist, someone would take the job in spite of the dangers, financial or otherwise. Askr’s nobility and the town’s winter traders existed as proof.)

Eventually, they settle on roasted red potatoes—spiced with thyme, rosemary, and garlic. It was a simple dish, but no less delicious when paired with beef bourguignon as a side. That is Virion’s claim anyway.

The dessert is simple enough to decide on—dried apple pie. Kiran thinks he can work with that; he had watched his mother make apple pie countless times.

Additionally, Virion even helps him decide on a location—one of the watchtowers.

Under normal circumstances, neither Virion nor Kiran would consider the watchtower as a potential site for dinner. The nightly patrols and watchtowers are an integral part of the castle’s defenses. However, due to the Winter Festival, a majority of the patrols would be off-duty—enjoying the festivities and spending time with loved ones.

(He is not quite sure if Anna would agree to their plans; he still had to ask her of course. It is still a watchtower after all.)

Despite his initial reluctance, Kiran is glad for Virion’s advice. It helps to calm his mind and disperse the panic.

Though, he could do without the man’s teasing remarks. Today, they are especially frequent, and he doesn’t quite understand what the implications are. As a result, they are particularly obnoxious.

As he leaves, he does not quite understand what Virion implies with that wink either.

* * *

Surprisingly, Anna agrees. Perhaps it is simply an aftereffect of the holidays, but there is not much resistance from her or even an off-color joke about charging him for a “premier” dining spot.

It is a bit unlike her in all honesty.

Though, Kiran is not quite sure how he is going to transport a table and a few chairs to the area, let alone the food. His strength had not improved all too much since his arrival in Zenith, and the storage room is quite a ways off from the designated spot.

He had asked Virion about that particular hitch in the plan, and the man had simply waved off his concern and told him not to worry. He would take care of it.

(Kiran is reluctant to have Virion help him this much. He had wanted to do this himself after all, but there is not many other options. It would be more embarrassing to cancel. The most he could do is decline Virion’s offer to help him cook. At the very least, Kiran could do that himself. That was the point of this after all.)

He sighs, breath audible and visible in the cold.

There is not much he can do but practice now. He had already informed Lucius of the time and location after all.

* * *

Like the changing of seasons, day three and two pass quickly, and the clock ticks to judgement day.

Kiran feels his heart thrum, beating tell-tale in its anxiety.

The kitchen had been bustling, in the throes of dinner preparations and almost ready for serving, when he had entered. He had expected them—and the busyness—of course, and they to him. Anna had sent an advance notice of his presence after all.

However, he had not expected the sheer number of kitchen staff. Chefs balancing trays and pans and pots, kitchenhands stacking finished dishes—spiced cakes and stuffed pastries, whole roasts, and a plethora of other delicacies—onto food carts, and washers furiously scrubbing at dirtied cookware. Further towards the back of the kitchen, he sees a few kitchen girls sitting at a basket-lined table—peeling vegetables and fruits most likely.

It makes him all the more nervous in all honesty. He does not quite know where to start. It is one thing when it was simply him and Caeda and another to be working in these conditions.

He does not have to wait long, however, until one of the cooks notices his presence and barks out an order. Kiran couldn’t quite hear in the bustle and shuffle of the kitchen, but apparently everyone could.

One of the kitchen girls rushes out from the bustle and grabs his hand, dragging him towards the back.

The kitchen is not a place for long courtesies, and he understands that. Nevertheless, her frankness surprises him.

Stopping near the back, he sees his ingredients stacked atop a table—chunk roast and pork still neatly tucked in their packages, unpeeled pearl onions in basket, spices and wine bottles set aside, and so forth.

She speaks, and Kiran strains to hear her.

“We left your ingredients here”—she points towards the table, emphasizing—“and you’re free to use anything here. I have to go and set the tables, but I’ll be back later to help you carry everything up.”

Without waiting for Kiran’s reply, she leaves.

With that, Kiran takes a breath, steadying himself, and begins.

* * *

Kiran slices the chunk roast into cubes. Despite his best efforts, they are unevenly proportioned, a sign of an amateur, though not too unappealing compared to his previous attempts.

(He is reminded of his mother then. Everything she cooked; she had done to perfection. Her onions had always been perfectly sliced, chef’s knife rocking at a blazing speed. Her glazes were never uneven nor was her frosting. When she cut beef for bourguignon, everything seemed measured to a tee, as if she had taken a ruler to it. She never did of course. He had watched her after all. Everything she did, she had done with the grace of practice.)

Adding them to a bowl, he seasons them with salt and pepper, coating the cubes in what he hopes is an even layer.

He parboils the pork—sliced into strips—and transfer it to an oiled pan. Each step reminds him of someone else, someplace else, but he continues anyway.

Despite the bustle of the kitchen behind him and the ruckus in the dinner hall, it is a quiet sort of place.

* * *

Taking out the pie and setting it onto the counter, Kiran feels a sense of relief at its appearance. The crust is intact—not caved in or even cracked.

And true to her world, the kitchen girl returns, pushing an empty cart.

With two sets of hands, it doesn’t take much time to stack everything and go.

* * *

Outside of her normal duties, the kitchen girl is a chatterbox.

Animatedly, she asks him about various topics—the heroes, the Order’s excursions, and even about simple gossip and rumors among the staff.

(He is not quite sure what to tell her when she asks Deeprealms. He certainly did not understand them either when he read the tome. Neither Corrin’s nor Kamui’s explanations helped either. If anything, it made everything even more convoluted.)

They stop by his room on the way to the watchtower. It is a bit of a detour, but Kiran has to retrieve his landscape painting.

He had not forgotten about it in his haste to plan a meal. In fact, he had even boxed and wrapped it.

He still is not quite satisfied with it, but he wants to convey his feelings. While the meal held the same purpose, Kiran is keenly aware of how his artistic abilities compare with his culinary skills. Even a mediocre painting would inspire more amazement than his cooking.

Reaching the watchtower, Kiran is a bit surprised to find a table—already adorned—and a set of chairs. He remembers Virion’s assurance of course, but still, it is a bit of a marvel on how he got it through the doorway.

Noticing his gaze, the kitchen girl explains, “The cleaning staff helped bring it up. The doorway was a bit of a mess, but they eventually figured something out.”

Kiran nods at her explanation before he begins plating.

There is not much time left.

* * *

With a quick shout of “Good luck!” and an assurance that she would be back later to clean up, she leaves him alone and sitting, the squeak of the cart’s wheels a smouldering memory.

Alone in the dark and underneath the ascending moon, Kiran fidgets, his worries growing—as if, the King in Yellow impending. The aromas of the food waft—heat visible in the smoke and rising, akin to a veneration of Artemis.

His mind swirls with doubts and fears, each thought like a drop of cream in a full coffee cup.

Did Lucius forget? Perhaps he changed his mind, having already eaten his fill at dinner? He had chosen a time after the main course after all—to let Lucius mingle with his own network of loved ones. Was he wandering town now, enjoying the nightly festivities? That certainly was the plan for a majority of the population.

It is stressful. Hands resting atop of his painting, his fingers tap against the clothed wood. Like the tapping of typewriter keys, it breaks the monotony of the night—throat sore from the chill and voice quiet.

Thus, Kiran is startled when he hears a door open. His imagination—once distracted by his worries— involuntarily flares, unreasonable in its expectations, before petering out into charcoal.

Thankfully, to his immense relief and pleasure, it is Lucius. Immediately, Kiran’s eyes are drawn to the parcel, wrapped in white fabric and tied with a red ribbon, in his hands.

He almost wishes to ask about it, but stems his curiosity out of a fear of impoliteness.

Lucius’s smile is warm, tinged with sheepishness, as walks over and stands by Kiran’s chair.

“My apologies, Kiran. I had to retrieve something from my room, and it took longer than expected.”

“It’s fine. I’m just glad you’re here.” Kiran hopes his smile is reassuring, not too toothy and not too wide.

(It is startling how much taller Lucius is when he is not sitting, when their normal situation is reversed. It is the sort of thing that he doesn’t really mind.)

He expects Lucius to take his seat then, but to his surprise, Lucius extends the parcel, expectant.

“For you.”

It is a short phrase, but the words carry meaning—a hint of Christmas Rose.

“T-thank you.” It is a dimwit’s response, but Kiran finds his vocabulary lacking in this moment—flowery embellishments, soliloquys of gratitude, and complex rumination dissipated.

The most he can do is extend his own gift, elbow bumping with a thump into the table in the process. Lucius’s gift takes its place on his lap.

(Thankfully, it is only a light bump, nothing forceful enough to knock over a dish or bottle.)

He does not quite know what to make of Lucius’s expression. Or rather, he couldn’t, not with his head lowered, hiding the flush of frost’s kiss. He feels the weight leave his hands, and hears the rustle of ribbon slipping and fabric unfolding.

He expects a polite sort of thankfulness—the obligatory sort of gratitude one gave for a mediocre gift. Instead, he feels a warmth on his back before he is pulled forward gently into an embrace.

It startles him, warms him like springtide’s first dawn.

Soft breath tickles his ear, and he simply hears.

“Thank you.”

* * *

Lucius’s gift is no less thoughtful than the man himself.

It is a botanical book, leather-bound and pages written in Lucius’s delicate script. That, by itself, would charm him, but there is so much more to it.

Next to each page—or section rather—is a hand-drawn illustration of the section’s plant, its parts marked once more in Lucius’s curving script.

It is a pretty, practical thing, one that had taken months to compose.

There is not much more he can do besides thank Lucius once more.

* * *

Despite the night’s beginnings, dinner begins as many of their affairs do, with simple conversation. Even if their topics trended towards the mundane—on the topics of the weather, on the castle’s inhabitants, and even simply on how the month had gone—Kiran couldn’t find himself growing bored. It is a repetitive sort of sentiment, but no less truth.

Though, Kiran finds himself often glancing, peeking, at Lucius.

His thoughts range from the normal worries of an amateur chef—fears of accidental food poisoning, mediocre taste, or even simply a dislike for his choices—to stranger thoughts. There is a certain joy he finds in observing Lucius.

In the shade of shimmering stars—unhidden by smog or mindful, covetous clouds—there is a certain loveliness, a radiance deserving of Eris’s apple and the envy of the heavens and heightened by enthralled moonbeams.

In the curve of his eyes, the fullness of his cheeks, the grace of his movements, even the Madonna would discover contentious envy.

It is a splendor that sinks fish and entices birds to fall. It is a splendor that eclipses the moon and shames flowers.

And in this, Kiran feels a sense of discomfort, one that causes both aversion and fascination.

It is a feeling that he quashes immediately.

Instead, he listens—content in the lull of Lucius’s voice, a sweet hymn, more enticing than the Pied Piper’s song and gentler than that of Christine’s melody or even Phoebus’s harp.

Eventually time dwindles, and dinner comes to a close, much to Kiran’s disappointment.

He expects Lucius to leave then; he certainly did not expect him to stay and clean after all. However, Lucius’s next words surprise him.

“Do you wish to stay here a bit longer? The view tonight is beautiful.”

And he agrees.

The town is aglow with the hanging lights—candleflame and magic alike—and lanterns dangling, circling upon their lines and branches. With the blessing of the hanging moon, the town—awash in snow—gleams white, garbed in angel plumage. Moving through the town, specks of color, Heroes and visitors and townsfolk alike, intermingle, moving to-and-fro between the various merchant stands and festival tents.

In the distance, fireworks—reds, whites, and a spectrum of other shades—bloom in an attempt to mimic the celestial forget-me-nots of angels. The official commencement of the Winter Festival as it is.

He can imagine the noise below—both joy and holiday mischievousness, but here above, alongside the heavens, it is quiet, pleasant in its simplicities.

Lost in the moment, neither Kiran nor Lucius hear the squeak of wheels or the opening and closing of a door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting into the meat of everything in terms of symbolism and allusions and all that. The allusions, while a flex of the brain muscles, are not simply there to fill word quota or to shallowly describe the situation. They serve as other facets or looks into Kiran's character (alongside describing the situations of course). You have a whole juxtaposition of Christianity and paganism (rather broad word but it works well enough for this) and the idea of conflict. Additionally, you can see Kiran's bastardization of various phrases, such as a rather famous one from Madame Bovary (whose situation somewhat resembles Kiran's in some aspects). There are bits here and there of that that play into the symbolism and literary aspect of this work.
> 
> And for the less well-known, Jia Baoyu is a major character from Dreams of the Red Chamber, one of China's four great classics while Vasusena is another name for the Indian hero, Karna. There's a rather sizable (as in numbering in the dozens) amount left in the chapter if one wishes to analyze.
> 
> And why Libra? It is not simply because I like Libra or because of superficial similarities to Lucius. Much like every character prominently portrayed in this fic, everyone, including Robin, has a story unbeknownst to Kiran. I actually have the draft for it (and Zenith' world building setup) on my hard drive. Not everything is or will be mentioned but it's simply so it's not made up as one goes along. There is a set piece to work with. There is a lot of reasons (symbolism, juxtaposition, foil, etc.) for this choice outside of the aforementioned two. And on a more shallower note, Libra was my S-Support for M!Robin with the Gay Awakening hack.
> 
> As another aside, I am not satisfied with the grammar or phrasing of some of these chapters, but they're rather long to fully redo or edit.
> 
> And final unrelated note, Maddening No-NG+ Blue Lions is rather easy for me so far (up to Chapter 7). I've done BL before as my first playthrough, but I do want that golden title screen. Very excited for Yuri as well since he's supposed to be an option for M!Byleth, and while Linhardt is very endearing, another run with him as S-support is tiresome. Probably gonna do a NG+ with my main file for that.


	6. Erik

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ultimately, growth requires practical experience rather than simply knowledge from books. Kiran finds that Zenith is not as idyllic as he would like it to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's chapter title comes from The Phantom of the Opera's titular character and his name. I was originally going to go with Opera Ghost, but I prefer the simplicity of just "Erik" (even if it is a bit vague). As a side note, The Phantom of the Opera was a book first—not particularly one of my favorites—but I think it fits for this chapter's title inspiration.

Red berries grow in southern land.

How many load in spring the trees!

Gather them till full is your hand;

They would revive fond memories.

— “Love Seeds,” Wang Wei

The castle is odd today, more akin to the White Witch’s castle than to the rather medieval sensibilities of Askr.

Drawing his coat and hood closer to himself, Kiran continues, pass the mirrored walls, pristine and unmelted despite the noontime sunbeams. Instead, the light only accentuates the delicate skill of the castle’s architect. The geometric patterns, reminiscent of snowflakes, glitter mesmerizingly in the light.

Each step resounds—echoes heaving like frost—in the hallway. The corridors wind like a frozen river, sculpture shadows dancing on the glasslike floors. Like a charade of shadow play, the deer and rabbits frolic, the fowls fly with forever-spread wings, and the beasts pounce, mouths stretched in fearsome roars. They follow like old acquaintances, leaving only when he rounds the bend and replaced.

Despite the brightness, it is an eerie sort, an almost-mockery of nature and of civilization. There is no noise—no prattle and play of children, no enthusiastic shouts from shopkeepers, no other footsteps besides his own.

There are no barking dogs eager to play, no neighing horses pleading for treats, and no birdsong to accompany him. It is simply himself and the shadows, cursed into eternal silence.

It is simply solitude.

* * *

Perhaps it is due to wine, but Kiran’s dreams are strange.

Waking up, he only recalls bits and pieces—leaning shadows and clinking steps. There isn’t much else he could remember.

Though as he thinks, attempting to recall, his cheeks flush. Instead of his dreams, the memories of last night rush into his head—bursting like water gushing from a dam.

It had been a pleasant night among friends—only heightened by the wine and pleasantries.

(Virion had been right. Nifl red wine had been an excellent choice to pair with the beef. It had been an intense sort of flavor—intense but not overbearingly sweet. Rather, it had held a touch of fruitiness—strawberries and grapes with a hint of rose. It had certainly been less bitter than the liquor of his youth anyway.)

For the most part, it had the atmosphere that Kiran enjoyed the most. Simply enjoying the view and listening to Lucius speak underneath the starry gardens of heaven.

Walking to his desk, he gently flips open the cover of a book—the botanical guide. There is a sense of giddiness that fills him as he looks at it. With care, he turns the pages—from Aloe vera to feverfew to marigold and mint. He flips through hundreds of pages, each plant carefully drawn and section alphabetized.

Eventually, he settles on daffodil. The illustration—a set of four drawn in different angles—is a practical sort of thing, lacking in flourishes but no less detailed. On this page, Kiran notes Lucius’s script, detailing the parts. It a neat sort of script—thin lines and curving cursive. It is a very practical kind of handwriting, lacking in excessive loops and embellishments and attractive in its simplicity.

He admires the illustration for a few moments before finally closing the book. While he would like to continue his current endeavors, he knows someone—most likely Sharena—will come looking for him eventually.

He grabs his coat from the chair and makes his way towards the door, caught up in the day’s routine and forgetful of his dreams.

* * *

Officially, the Winter Festival is a weeklong event, extending from the twenty-fifth of the twelfth month to the thirty-first. Though some would argue that it extended to the first day of the new year. That is, at the very least, certainly when clean-up began and mistakes of the previous night are realized anyway.

Kiran could have given himself a few more days of preparation, but what use would it have been? Three extra days of practice would not have made him a master chef or a master painter. Furthermore, it is the beginning and the end of the festival that held the most significance, at least in Kiran’s opinion. Perhaps, it is a leftover of his own world’s calendar and his own preconceptions, but everything inbetween those two dates felt lackluster, less “special” as it were.

They were simply days that one used to wind down, between the excitement of Christmas and the oaths of New Year’s Eve.

He doesn’t mind all too much though really. It simply meant more time to relax and more time to paint.

Certainly, there is a particular joy to be found in roaming a place like Askr—lanterns strung, musicians playing, and townsfolk dressed for festivities.

It is a peaceful sort of existence.

* * *

Day two and three of the Winter Festival pass without a hitch, and his dreams do not wander.

On the fourth day, however, his mind returns to that place or rather, to the outskirts of its gardens. He presumes that it there is a relation anyway. The décor seemed to certainly match. In the distance, pass the hedges, he sees the faint outline of a palace, silhouette obscured both by snow and the remoteness of his position.

(It is odd how the human mind forgets once the day breaks, but recalls in the lonesome hours of the night. One could bury a memory—a seed—and forget until it flowered in a dream, subconscious shaking loose soil.)

Like his previous visit, there isn’t much he can do besides continue forward toward the palace, snow drifting softly. Thankfully, the snowfall is only light—neither squall nor blizzard.

Once more, his only company is the sculptures—figures halted in eternity, time taken as if by a playful trick of the fae folk. He passes swans, necks intertwined, lounging nymphs with eyes coy and playful, and sleeping dragons, lifelike and almost ready to wake. Their marblelike scales glimmer underneath the flecks of snow.

Overhead, the sky is overcast, its dull gray barren of life and movement outside of the falling, swaying snow.

In the breeze, a tree shudders—bare branches twisted and red berry bunches swaying like Chinese talismans.

He wants to touch them of course, to feel the stone scales beneath his fingertips, but he cannot, not with the falling snow. He fears a swift change in weather. He has no information, no idea on where he is. Without that, he simply could not find shelter if worst came to worst and thus, he could not waste time on admiration.

The snow crunches underneath his boots, and Kiran shivers. He isn’t used to the cold, not after a year in Askr’s warm, mild climate. While the coat is warm, it hadn’t been created with these temperatures in mind. Most standard Askrian uniforms would not be able to withstand it, not without supplementary equipment.

He tugs his hood closer to himself and walks quicker. If this is what gentle snowfall is like, he certainly didn’t want to experience this location’s version of a heavy snowstorm.

Despite his new pace, the palace seems no closer. Around him, the figures loom—jeering. The nymphs’ gesture, malicious in their silent laughter, and the swans leer, angry at his intrusion into their world.

Only the dragons disregards him, silent in their stone slumber, and that in itself, is the wickedest indignity.

Behind him, his footsteps disappear, erased by snowflakes.

* * *

Perhaps his lack of sleep is noticeable, but Corrin finds him the next day, next to the confectionery stand.

It is a charming sort of place, marked by its high-rising banners and vibrant, popping letters. Candies line the glass display cases, ranging from little bitty bonbons to colorful rock candies and candied fruits—whole strawberries, mandarin slices, and cut apples—to hand-wrapped toffees, their wrappers enticing in their design and variety, polka dots and stripes and dotted lines. To the sides of the display cases, sits a bamboo holder, lined with sugared fruit skewers—tanghulu. Next to it, a stand of amezaiku animals plays—goldfish and koi swimming, dogs barking, and cats sauntering.

Between the candy cases, two wooden baskets sit, ready for the stand’s main attraction—dragon’s beard candy.

The stand is one of Kamui’s endeavors—her idea of fun and a way of earning a bit of extra pocket change. Besides her, Takumi works, pulling the sugar strands. Perhaps some would call it “henpecked,” but Takumi didn’t really seem to mind, preferring to spend time with Kamui over wandering the festival by his lonesome.

Furthermore, it isn’t like they’re always there. From time to time, he sees Ryoma there, hair tied into a ponytail by a blue ribbon and diligent. His work isn’t quite as good as Kamui’s or Takumi’s, but he tries admirably.

Though, he couldn’t say the other customers felt the same. The shop, while still busy, isn’t quite as crowded as when Kamui and Takumi man it. However, Ryoma does attract quite a few female visitors.

(She is older than her male counterpart by a few years, having experienced peace for a near-decade before being drawn into another war. Though, her face is still as youthful as ever—the benefits of dragon’s blood he presumes.

It had been a surprise to him—in part because of her story counterpart’s ferocity and tenacity—when he had learned of her chosen profession, neither general nor mercenary or even simply diplomat.

It had simply been confectioner.

After the war, she had chosen to open a confectionery store rather than pursue military work.

He had asked of course, ordered by his curiosity. In return, her reply had been simple, short but not rudely curt, merely benign.

“I’m tired,” she said.)

Kiran had been admiring the candies—indecisive between the miniature chocolate foxes and the hawthorn skewers. He could certainly buy both, but he doesn’t quite want his waistline to expand all too much. Furthermore, the stand’s discounts didn’t apply to him—he is neither a child nor is he a younger sibling.

(Perhaps, it is a consequence of both his own vanity and his upbringing, but the idea of overindulgence repulses him. Kiran remembers his father’s words quite well. In particular, his father had been fond of quoting Proverbs. He remembers his father’s stern baritone, not quite softened by years of retirement and a favorite of his: For the drunkard and the glutton shall come to poverty, and drowsiness shall clothe a man with rags. It is shrewd sort of saying in Kiran’s opinion, even if he didn’t quite believe.)

Lost in his thoughts, it startles him when he feels a tap on his shoulder. Turning, he expects to see another customer, annoyed at his slow pace, or perhaps even a lost tourist in need of directions. Instead, he sees Corrin, light concern etched upon his eyes.

“May I speak to you?” He pauses for a moment, as if considering something. “Elsewhere and after you’re done choosing of course.”

He ends up picking the chocolates, and Kamui boxes them for him. Waving a quick goodbye to her, he leaves, following after Corrin and passing by Elise and Serra on the way out.

Corrin ends up taking him to one of the town parks. The trees are strung with lights, dormant in the morning glow, and the benches are covered in thin layers of snow. In the corner, there is a small pond, frosted over and ducks flown south.

For the most part, it is an empty place with only a few children roaming about. It is unsurprising for the most part. Most individuals, locals and tourists alike, would be assembled among the festival stands, and this particular park, at least in the winter, isn’t as popular as some of the others. The view isn’t quite as spectacular as some other locations, lacking in the hills and heights necessary for stargazing and peoplewatching. It is a bit of a secluded place, quite a bit a ways off from the stands and attractions as well.

The only real place of interest, the pond, lacked what made the location special—ducks.

Corrin passes by a few children before finally settling on a bench. He brushes the snow away before sitting down, hands folded elegantly on his lap. Even as someone who was isolated for a majority of his life, he didn’t lack in manners—a leftover of a royal’s childhood.

He pats the spot next to him, waiting for Kiran to sit before beginning.

“Seeing them play reminds me of my daughter”—there is a wistfulness in his tone—“I hope Dwyer is taking care of her. She hasn’t quite mastered her Dragonstone yet, and she’s prone to getting into trouble…”

He drifts off then before returning to the subject, serious.

“Though, that is not why I have requested an audience with you.”

(Corrin’s speech patterns are a bit odd—a blend of informality and formality—but it has its charms he supposes. When asked, Corrin had explained it as a result of his upbringing in the Northern Fortress. He hadn’t had many people to talk to—to learn speech from. Of course, he had his tutors, but they couldn’t stay for every single hour of the day. Likewise, his Nohrian siblings were not permitted to stay for long visitations. As a result, when he had learned to speak, he had taken from both his tutors and siblings and from the passing servants.)

Kiran expects the worst. Perhaps a spy in their midst or even an invasion? Or perhaps, Corrin simply wished to go home? He had just talked about his daughter after all. Corrin’s face is certainly serious enough, lacking in the usual gentleness.

Corrin places a hand on Kiran’s shoulder, still serious.

“Are you okay?”

The simplicity and straightforwardness of Corrin’s question startles and confuses him.

Seeing his confusion, Corrin elaborates, “I mean, have you’ve been sleeping well? You seem ill-rested as of late.”

His tone is sheepish then as he clarifies—most likely remembering Leo. “Well, worse than the usual for a tactician.”

Corrin’s perceptiveness astonishes him, though perhaps it shouldn’t. He had led an army consisting of warring kingdoms after all.

(Corrin’s naivety is an odd thing, one comparable to a coin flip. On some occasions, such as with matters of the bedchamber and courtship, his naivety often got the better of him and on others, his insight preceded him. In particular, his ability to understand and rally his allies is astounding. Certainly, one, even with the existence of advisors, could not have led two rivaling armies without some sort of natural charisma.)

Perhaps, he is silent for too long, but Corrin continues, “If it is not too presumptuous of me, I used to have nightmares during my time as a general. I still do from time to time actually, and if you need someone to talk to, I am available. I find talking often relieves me of my worries and perhaps, it may be the same for you.”

He shifts a bit, retracting his hand from Kiran’s shoulder and folding his hands in his lap once more.

“Though if you do not wish to talk, I find tea often helps—lime flower tea in particular or perhaps, valerian if you have particularities when it comes to taste. Jakob often makes it for me before bed.”

He quiets then, finished.

He is a bit touched by Corrin’s concern in all honesty, and he can understand the charm that drew opposing sides together. There is a certain charm in his concern—genuine and earnest in a way that one often couldn’t find outside of children. It is only accentuated by his odd manner of speech—lilting words accented by both a commoner’s warble and a noble’s crescendo.

“Ah, I have been having strange dreams lately”—that is easy, vague, enough to reveal—“but I don’t think they’re all that serious.”

Kiran shrugs, completing his appearance of nonchalance.

Of course, in all actuality, the dreams do bother him—the unheard melody, the pallid snow, and the skulking shadows. Everything bothers him, but it is not something he wishes to trouble another with.

Concern, in her encore, still dances in Corrin’s eyes.

“Are you sure?” Her whispers play at the edges of his voice. He doesn’t quite believe him, but he continues on anyway. He isn’t quite like Robin, playful yet bitingly, pointily sharp. He is softer, more concerned with the process rather than merely the results—akin to a surgeon’s blade rather than a thief’s stiletto.

“Then perhaps”—his voice drifts before he speaks, as if considering the ramifications or some stray thought—"is someone bothering you? I mean, my world is much the same, though I hadn’t expected Zenith to hold the same biases. The people are rather nice, and the history books mention such pairings.”

Corrin’s words confuse him greatly. He hadn’t expected that sort of response nor did he quite understand what exactly Corrin is referencing.

Though, Corrin doesn’t seem to notice his confusion, not as of yet anyway. His brow is scrunched in thought as he prattles on.

“I mean, the validity of my marriage was put into question, what with the difference in social class as well as with the more obvious, though that was eventually resolved with my brother’s help. It had been quite the scandal when it was announced—nobles often don’t marry outside of their class, especially with their own servant, or ex-servant rather. Xander had had much of the same problems as well with the difference in social class; the nobles hadn’t liked Charlotte all too much, especially with the wrench it caused with the arranged marriages. Perhaps, you can ask Anna or Sharena for help? I’d recommend Alfonse, but he isn’t quite in favor with some of his subjects.”

Kiran’s confusion does not abate with Corrin’s words. Rather, it only intensifies with each sentence Corrin spouts.

“—or perhaps, it is his profession that you’re concerned about? I can perhaps help you with that, ask him about any potential vows of celibacy I mean. I would be discreet of course. I’m particularly goo—”

Kiran interrupts, incredibly confused, “Corrin, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I mean, I find the court intrigue fascinating, but I have no idea what this has to do with me.”

Corrin’s eyes show a bit of alarm as he flusters, realization setting in.

“O-oh, I apologize then. I had assumed that you were… never mind.”

Corrin’s cheeks are tinted red, a near-exact match for the hue of his eyes.

“Assumed what?” Kiran’s tone isn’t malicious, simply curious once more. He is aware of the saying of course, of a cat’s curiosity, but the satisfaction of an answer is something he quite enjoys. There is a tinge of dread in his heart, like the dormant bloom in winter, expectant for springtide., but curiosity overrides concern.

Corrin fidgets, most likely at his perceived social faux-pas. Kiran isn’t quite sure of the exact reason, but he can at least understand that.

Though, Kiran couldn’t quite understand how Corrin made thumb twiddling elegant. Another mystery of the nobility possibly or perhaps, it is simply another of Corrin’s rather unique mannerisms.

“Well?” He hopes his tone is gentle, obvious in its curiosity rather than harsh and demanding. Corrin is one of the nicer Heroes and one of his first summons, and he doesn’t quite want to alienate him.

The silence continues, the distant sounds of the festival intruding, peeking through the crack of nature’s doorway, before Corrin finally relents.

In these sorts of moments, Corrin’s politeness undoes him, unwinding like a cat’s ball of yarn. He couldn’t simply end the conversation nor is he the sort of individual to simply walk away mid-word.

“Do not take this the wrong way, but I had assumed,” he pauses, clearly uncomfortable and hopeful that Kiran would desist.

“Yes?” Perhaps it is a bit mean to push Corrin like this, but it isn’t like they could stay there all day.

(There are other motives of course, but he buries those thoughts.)

Corrin takes a breath—a tactic for drawing out the conversation—before speaking, “I had assumed you held the same inclinations.”

There is a certain understanding in Corrin’s meaning, but it isn’t one that he wishes to probe further. However, it is a certain sort of matter he could not leave uncertain either. Nebulousness on matters uncomfortable often left one in need of confirmation—certainty—even if the answer is apparent in all but speech.

That is simply how humans are—desiring assurance on matters clear yet unpleasant and refusing reality on matters unclear and open to interpretation.

Thus, it is unsurprising when Kiran speaks again. Beneath the snow, trepidation’s petals peek.

“I-I What do you mean?”

Corrin’s cheeks still hold a tinge of red as he speaks, “My apologies again. I did not mean to offend you nor did I mean to be ambiguous in my words.”

“What I meant is”—he pauses to consider his words, most likely in an attempt to salvage the situation—“I had assumed you held a similar attraction to men.”

Kiran’s heart sinks at that. Certainly, he couldn’t have assumed much else from Corrin’s previous words, but there had been a hope, futile as it is, that possibly, he had simply misinterpreted Corrin’s words or perhaps that Nohr and Hoshido held different euphemisms.

“Takumi often says that I can be too nosy for my own good, and I guess he can be right from time to time.”

Corrin rubs the back of his head in embarrassment. It is a bit of an understatement and a poor attempt to diffuse the awkwardness, but Kiran can at least appreciate his attempt.

Though, it does nothing to ease the sensation within his chest—dread flowered into nausea and spread petals open for the gazing sun.

However, his response doesn’t sate Kiran’s curiosity entirely. There are bits and pieces of Corrin’s ramblings that still bother him.

(Though, Kiran, in the deepest recesses of his mind, knows the answer. There is only one singular answer. There are many deformities one would like to hide—to ignore—about their own character. In particular, one would feel especially inclined to entomb their failings—their slights against others—within time’s mausoleum.)

And thus, he asks.

“How did you come to that conclusion? I mean, it doesn’t bother me”—it does naturally—“but how, specifically, did you reach it? And celibacy? What’s that about?”

“Ah”—Corrin’s twiddles his thumbs, a habit not unlike Robin’s tapping—“do not take this the wrong way. I did not mean to disparage your friendship, but I had assumed that you held…a more intimate relationship with Lucius.”

Oh. It is one thing to think and another to hear it stated so bluntly. His chest feels constricted, heart ticking like a damaged clock.

He continues, “I would normally not assume so much, but you often spend time with him. Of course, that by itself would not lend itself to my misgivings, but it is in your actions during those times.”

Corrin sighs, likely frustrated at his faux pas once more.

“There is a certain joy in your eyes whenever you’re with him as well as a lightness in your steps. You’re less…pardon my language, withdrawn. You are more genuine then.”

“Is that all? That’s a bit much. Lucius is a good friend.” His laugh then is a bit forced, awkward and short, but Corrin is a polite enough man. He doesn’t comment on it.

(He ignores the last bit as well, more focused on everything else.)

He only clarifies.

“No, it is in both your and Lucius’s actions. He is more considerate when he is with you.”

“Lucius is always considerate.” Even the most blind of mice would be able to see that.

“Ah pardon, I mean more so. Lucius is a kind man, but when he is with you, there is a certain care in his actions. He is gentler. He reminds me a bit of Jakob in that respect.”

Kiran feels a bit of incredulity at that. He had met Jakob numerous times before and worked with the man, and he would never describe him as such.

Most likely used to those sorts of reactions, Corrin explains, “I understand how that sounds, but he really is a caring sort of person. He can be…prickly at times, but he means well. Though in relation to our current conversation, what I mean is, I see the same sort of affection as when I am with Jakob.”

Corrin quiets then, done.

Kiran isn’t quite sure what to make of Corrin’s words nor is he is he sure of what to reply with. He stews in his thoughts, hands placed firmly on his box.

Though, Corrin, to his credit, saves them from the silence.

“You are most likely tired of hearing this, but I do apologize again for my mistake. I had been worried about you. You seem more tired, and I only had only wished to see if I could help. It does not justify my ignorance, but I wanted to explain myself.”

Corrin stands then, cape flowing and graceful. He extends a hand towards Kiran, of which he accepts, and pulls him up and off the bench.

“I’ve kept you too long from the festival as well. If you still wish to keep my company, we can walk back together. Perhaps towards today’s archery contest? I know Virion is participating today.”

It is an attempt at reconciling a small ill, but Kiran accepts, nonetheless.

Walking together is easier in a crowd after all.

* * *

Disappointingly enough, Virion only places third, behind Jeorge and Takumi. Of course, it is still a good placement, all things considering—it had been a contest among Heroes after all—but it is a disappointment, nonetheless.

However, Corrin’s words stay with him throughout the day, lingering like a noblewoman’s perfume. It is an uncomfortable sort of prick, akin to a doctor’s needle. It is easy enough to distract himself, especially with the festival ongoing, but still, his words remain in the background, submerged like sand at high tide.

Like the sands, his discomfort reemerge when the day recedes. For Kiran, it is difficult to focus on the portrait—if it could even be called a portrait in its current state anyway.

(The canvas is blank—not for lack of attempt, but from distaste. He had attempted to paint, to sketch his subject’s face, but nothing satisfies him. It only ends in the canvas covered in white, painted over for the next attempt. It is a cycle of errors and rectification, akin to an ouroboros or to Saṃsāra.)

It isn’t particularly helped by his subject matter either. Concentrating on Lucius’s qualities only brings Corrin’s words to mind. It is foolish, of course, to work on something that would obviously bring to mind his worries, but Kiran wants to be productive. He wants to achieve, to surpass, and to convey.

Furthermore, sleep had not come easily. Upon his bed, his mind had only wandered, not to the darkened shores of the Oneiroi but to worrisome reality. Tossing and turning, he had only rumpled his sheets and dug himself further into the grave of his thoughts.

It is strange that Corrin’s words bother him so. If one held no secrets, no internal fears, one could brush away such thoughts easily.

Of course, he is no such man. He is prone to curiosity, to thinking and to dissecting ideas. Moreover, such an accusation, as simple as it was, would obviously stir such contemplation.

He is no such man. He has no interest in that sort of lifestyle. He is aware of it of course. Who wouldn’t be after last year’s demonstration? It hadn’t been covered particularly often, but newspapers had been easy enough to come by at the grocery store.

(Or perhaps he should say two years roughly? He isn’t quite sure of how Askr’s time aligns with his own world’s.)

Even if he hadn’t been aware of the demonstrations, it is easy enough to understand where the problem lies—the ostracization, the ridicule, and the scorn.

(He remembers the town scandal of his senior year—the pastor’s son and some vagabond. The vagabond had been a frequent visitor to town, a man in his early twenties with a cleanshaven face, twinkling blue eyes, and curling blond hair—the stereotypical angel one would expect to see in Notre Dame or the Vatican rather than some dinky town. Kiran had only been aware of him because of his frequent visits to Mrs. Davis’s store, always after noon. He had been the sort of man to slip a few extra coins as a gift when he paid—to the “short lad” as he would say. On the pastor’s son, Kiran, despite their shared school year, hadn’t been all too aware of him outside of passing rumors and shared group projects—sincere, handsome, kind, and confident. He had been the sort one had expected to go to Harvard or Princeton or some other prestigious university in some far-off country, perhaps in England or France.

It had been a shock when the two had been discovered together—found in some motel room in a nearby town. Perhaps it had been bad luck or merely the will of some deity, but they had had the misfortune of simply being seen by a passing classmate, there on a visit to family, and it had spiraled from there.

Kiran isn’t quite sure what happened to them after outside of some vague details. He only knows the ending, that the two had ridden off with the bare essentials in some damned hour of the night. Soon after, the pastor had moved.)

He doesn’t have a problem with those sorts of course, but it is simply something that should be kept behind closed doors, away from staring eyes. Certainly, that is society’s will.

Perhaps the idea bothers him because of his appearance. He is small, slight of frame. He isn’t so feminine as to be mistaken for a woman, but he isn’t quite the ideal of masculinity either. It is a sore point of sorts for him.

But overall, the idea of being with a man repulses him, causes his body to shudder. It simply isn’t appealing to imagine himself with another man.

Though, what unnerves him most is the idea of an intimate relationship with Lucius.

Rather, it unnerves him in its absence. There is no repulsion in the idea—no resistance but simply, a strange sort of pull in his chest.

It isn’t something that he enjoys at all nor does he want to consider the reasons.

His dreams later that night are not plagued by snow or ice or even simply memories of the past—altered film reels played on mind’s movie screen.

It had simply been a what-if, a link—not unlike Ariadne’s thread—among many to an implausible future, a longing sweetness found only in fantasies and condemned upon waking.

It is a happy foolishness untarnished by law and expectations—one shared by only one and evening’s visitor.

It is a solitary dream, cast in the hush of stars and bobbing like a lure upon a still ocean.

* * *

He spends the second-to-last day of the Winter Festival with Sharena, pulled along between stalls and various restaurants.

“I don’t understand why Alfonse refuses to take a break! It’s festival time, and he’s still holed up in his room doing reports! I thought Anna confiscated all of them as well! Where did he even find them?”

Angrily, Sharena shoves a piece of apo Tofu into her mouth and chews. Her chopsticks clink against her bowl as she continues.

Close to her, there are plates of stuffed dried garlic eggplant, dim sum, sliced braised cucumber, and chicken fat sautéed spinach. A glass of Nifl red wine stands to the side, next to her napkin and a bowl of jasmine rice. A Peking duck sits at the center of the table. It is a bit of a mishmash of cuisines, but Sharena likes them well enough.

Across from her, Kiran sits. He has much of the same dishes as Sharena—outside of a water instead of wine—though in much smaller quantities. He doesn’t quite understand how Sharena can eat so much, especially with the number of food stands and restaurants they have visited and plan to visit. It is a mystery of sorts, especially with her petite frame, but he isn’t shameless or rude enough to ask.

He only nods at her, mouth still full of Mapo Tofu. It is a spicy, savory sort of favor complimented by the greens.

“How could he choose work over spending time with me, his sister? It’s only seven days out of a whole year.”

Sharena pouts before speaking again, “Anyways, do you have any siblings? Or maybe some close cousins?”

Swallowing, Kiran answers, “No, I’m an only child, and my cousins live across the ocean in my world. We don’t really communicate really outside of the occasional letter.”

“Oh”—Sharena seems disappointed by that—"if you get the chance to, you should talk to them more. Family is important.”

A silence descends on them, interspersed with the clinking of dishes and utensils and the conversation drifting in from other booths. It isn’t quite awkward, but it isn’t exactly comfortable either.

Kiran picks at his remaining food with his pair of chopsticks. It is delicious, especially the tofu and duck, but he has eaten quite a bit already.

“So, how are you enjoying the food?”

It is Sharena’s attempt at lessening the awkwardness.

“Oh, it’s good. The Mapo Tofu is my favorite.”

It is a bit of a rough response, but it is truthful. At the very least, Sharena brightens up.

“Good! I was kinda worried you wouldn’t like it. Alfonse doesn’t really care for the spiciness. The Mapo Tofu is a seasonal dish here. It is a bit weird considering some of the other restaurants serve it year-round, but the one here is my favorite. The spices taste better I think.”

Sharena sighs, whether from the heat of the food or from eating too much Kiran isn’t quite sure.

“I actually went here quite often as a child, whenever we visited the Order of Heroes. It was mostly business for my parents, but we always ate at this restaurant before we left.”

Sharena picks up a piece of duck with her chopsticks and places it into her rice bowl, letting the fats from the meat soak into the rice.

“Anna was actually a cadet then. We—Alfonse and I— actually met her here, during one of her lunch breaks.”

Sharena pauses for a moment in consideration before picking up another duck piece and placing it next to its twin.

“She’s actually the reason Alfonse joined the Order.”

Kiran’s interest perks up that, and Sharena notices and continues, elaborating.

“I mean, she didn’t recruit him specifically or anything like that. She mostly just told stories—heroics, her day-to-day life, and all that.”

That bit of information startles Kiran. Alfonse hadn’t seemed like a romantic at all.

Sharena picks up a bit of rice—now light gold in hue from the duck fat—and places it in her mouth and chews before swallowing.

“He isn’t a romantic or anything. He hates fairy tales actually. He used to try and escape whenever mother read us a bedtime story”—Sharena gives a light laugh at that—“what actually made him join were the specifics of Anna’s stories.”

Kiran’s interest peaks with that.

“They weren’t particularly well-told stories, but they were truthful. She glossed over the worst of it for us—we were young after all—but I think that was what really got to Alfonse. She told us about her family and the outlying towns.”

She eats a bit more of her rice and picks up another piece of duck. Her bowl is already half empty.

“Well…the Knights try to protect everyone, but they’re only one group you know? They have obligations to our family, and they can’t really go everywhere like the Order can. Askr is a big place you know? They’re a bit more selective with their members, and there just isn’t enough of them to travel everywhere and keep the capital safe as well.”

She taps the rim of her bowl with her chopsticks before continuing, “She told us about her troubles—her family’s financial difficulties, the bandit raids, everything we don’t really get to hear as nobles. I think that was what really got to Alfonse—his ignorance on everything. At the time, our father had already begun his training for Alfonse’s eventual succession, but he had never been taught those sorts of things. Of course, we knew about the bandit raids and bad harvests, but it is a bit different when you hear it from someone who has experienced it—the details I mean.”

She sighs again.

“I think Anna’s terrible storytelling actually helped in that aspect. She lacks the flourishes you have, but it is blunt as a result—unsettling to hear about. I think our father actually blames her for Alfonse’s enrollment into the Order—some of the nobles and commoners do. Not around here of course, but in the capital and surrounding areas.”

She finishes her bowl and places it down, the porcelain clinking against the wood of the table.

“But! That’s enough heaviness for today! Are you full? We can go visit the park or maybe the training fields, work off that meal before we visit the next one.”

Kiran doesn’t have much to say after Sharena’s story, so he merely nods.

What would one say after hearing something like that?

At Kiran’s affirmation, Sharena waves her hand to bring over a waiter, a few boxes for their leftovers, and the bill.

As she pays, Sharena remembers something and pulls out a few more coins.

“Oh! I almost forgot! Can we please have a box of chicken dumplings to go? Those are my brother’s favorites.”

* * *

Painting tonight brings him no closer to finishing. He discards palette after palette, dissatisfied once the paint reaches the canvas. He thinks he might have to discard the canvas as well soon, or at the very least, sand it down. The layers are thickening, and the texture of the canvas is becoming repugnant.

Even if he finished the portrait, gifting it on such unsightly material would be disgraceful.

Placing his brush down onto his palette, Kiran sighs and walks towards the open window. He leans out the window, chin resting upon his palm and elbow resting on stone, and gazes toward the town. He would not stay long here. After all, he does not want to ruin his brush.

But, it is simply a momentary break.

It is a pretty place, strewn with lanterns and festival stragglers. The moonlight gleams upon the white of the trees, adorned with red silk brocade ribbon and glass ornaments, and upon the snow-covered roofs. The colorful glass tinkles and swings in the soft winter breeze, basking in light and uncaring of their admirers. The houses stand tall, dressed in banners and seasonal cheer. From his height, Kiran can only see the blurry silhouettes of people—still awake and rushing about for tomorrow.

It is an idyllic scene, one that wouldn’t be all too out of place in one of his fantasy novels.

The breeze tickles his face, petting his hair and rustling his bangs. Above, the moon hangs, high and proud. The stars twinkle, bright alongside their mistress.

It is a simple moment in time, free from worry’s gaze.

* * *

On the final day of the festival, Kiran spends time by himself, wandering about. He has had his fill of the food. At the very least, he could not eat much more, not after his day with Sharena, without some distress and guilt.

Thus, he ends up mostly visiting stands for pleasantries. Like Kamui and Takumi, not every Hero chose to simply play the part of a tourist.

He passes by Reflet and Henry at their spell shop, mostly primed with good luck talismans and amulets and the occasional spell book, Jeorge at his shooting booth (set up not unlike a carnival game with plates and glass bottles), and so forth.

As he walks between each place, he catches glimpses of various other Heroes interspersed with the town residents—Gordin, Innes, and Alm competing at Jeorge’s booth, Delthea and Clarisse at the sweet stand, Celica and Est chatting by the fountains. Overhead, he can see the telltale armor of Hoshidan pterippi—most likely Subaki and Hinoka on a casual outing.

He even sees some odd pairs roaming about—Arvis and Seliph, Roderick and Berkut, Palla and Lissa.

Though perhaps, it shouldn’t be as odd as it is, certainly not with Kiran’s background.

Askr, and Zenith as a whole, is a fantastical place for someone like Kiran. Dragons and pterippi and even the existence of magic are more than mere fantasy. They are all tangible things—capable of being seen and touched.

It is a different sort of amazement than with the steam engines and tellies and radio of Kiran’s world. It is not a normality.

Furthermore, Askr is a place of possibility—where time and space blur in a lover’s embrace and impossible meetings become reality rather than remain as speculative fiction. It is a place to reconcile the legendary with the everyday and to reach for lost opportunity and rectify regret—to learn as Eve did when she grasped the fruit.

Thus, should relationships—familial or otherwise—be ordinary, expected no matter the individuals?

Kiran isn’t quite sure where he stands on that.

* * *

In the early evening, he finds Lucius again, or rather, Lucius finds him.

There is the tap on the shoulder (as expected as it is nowadays with Kiran), and the low, honeysuckle sweet call of “Kiran.” Perhaps it is exaggeration, but it is merely truth for Kiran (as much as it disturbs him, now with Corrin’s words shaking his core).

Today, rather than a battlefield, the infirmary, or even a location with just the two of them, they speak in the middle of a noodle shop—bare to the world and unhidden by stone or snow.

“May I join you?” There is Lucius’s voice again, soft-spoken yet firm.

Kiran can only nod, afraid of his speech failing.

With that, Lucius pulls out the chair and sits across from Kiran.

Today, the shop is noisy—bustling and full most likely from its relatively close proximity to Kamui’s stand. People often desire a savory meal after a sugary treat after all.

As they wait for their meal, Kiran’s heart beats—fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings.

Across from him, Lucius stirs his tea, having added a drop of wildflower honey. The steam drifts readily from his cup, having been recently brought to their table by a waitress alongside Kiran’s modest glass of water.

Unlike most (normal) occasions with Lucius, Kiran isn’t quite sure of what to say. He couldn’t elaborate further on his world’s stories; it would take too long. Furthermore, there is a sense of embarrassment or rather, the fear of it. What if he became too excited during his story? Made too many wild gestures or spoke too loudly?

Maybe it is foolish, but that is simply another of Kiran’s fears.

“Kiran?” Lucius’s voice stirs him from his thoughts, and he looks up.

The blue of Lucius’s eyes are stunning—akin to or even surpassing the Blue Belle—and it almost takes his breath away. With that thought, a surge of guilt stabs his heart, needle pricking.

Though, perhaps there truly was a needle in his heart. Perhaps someone somewhere was stabbing a voodoo doll—pins capped in red. Certainly, that would explain the deceit of his soul.

It is wicked to feel this way—a shame unwillingly etched onto his soul and a shame bestowed unjustly onto Lucius.

He is a good man.

He once again hears his name, now tinged with concern.

“Kiran? Are you alright?”

“Y-yeah. Sorry, got caught up in my thoughts.” His voice is a bit weak, even to his own ears, but there isn’t much he can do about it.

Lucius doesn’t quite believe him by the look in his eyes, but thankfully, he doesn’t prod further.

Their meal arrives soon after—duck shoyu for Lucius and a tonkotsu ramen for Kiran. It is a bit of a foreigner’s dish, even for Askr, and especially for Kiran. Watersmeet had not exactly had a variety in cuisine, and his mother had not held much interest in the cuisine of the East.

For Askr, these sorts of dishes hail from the northern kingdoms beyond the mountains, brought along with the travelers and migrants.

The noodles are thin, piled in the center of the rich brown broth. Three thick slices of chashu pork and a sheet of nori are placed delicately to the side. Decorating the dish are a few stripes of menma—resting atop the corner of the noodles and across from the half slice of soft-boiled egg, golden center facing upward. Completing the dish is a sprinkling of green onion and the wafting of fragrant steam.

Sitting together is easier when one has food. Whether one wished to remain quiet, or if one desired to speak, a meal offered many opportunities for one to do so. If one wished for the former one merely had to eat—fill their mouth and chew—or if it is the latter, one simply had to wait until everyone else began eating to speak.

Kiran chooses the former. To his delight, the tonkotsu ramen is as delicious as its appearance suggests. Its deliciousness is particularly heightened by its status as Kiran’s first meal of the day. Beforehand, he had not eaten all too much, then still too full from yesterday.

(Food did not merely decide who had the right to speak. A meal shared together is one that connects individuals. It is a thread that connects friends and enemies, family and strangers. It is a way of extending an olive branch and of forming a bond. Though perhaps, that sort of thought is a consequence of Caeda’s ideals rather than his own.)

He finishes about a quarter of the bowl before sneaking a glance at Lucius. To his surprise, Lucius’s bowl is barely touched, only a bit of the noodles and a chunk of the duck are missing. Instead, Lucius is staring intently at him.

“Do you not like it?” Kiran’s words embarrass himself as well. He hadn’t meant to be that forward or to even speak, but his tongue had moved before his brain could catch up.

There is a hint of nervous surprise in Lucius’s eyes before he composes himself.

“It is fine, delicious even.”

“Oh. Are you maybe not hungry then?” There isn’t much use in remaining quiet now. If he did, the atmosphere would only become awkward.

“I am, but I had wanted to ask you about something. Though, I was not quite sure on when to ask.” Lucius’s voice is smooth, unlike what his eyes would have previously suggested.

“Oh? What is it?”

“Do you want to watch the fireworks with me tonight?”

It is a simple question, but it almost stops Kiran’s heart.

“Of course, other people will be there. The hill outside of town is a popular location.”

Kiran’s thoughts are racing—a clench of his chest, the dilation of his eyes, and most importantly, the stab of disgust that pierces his heart like Cupid’s arrow. It isn’t disgust at Lucius of course. He could never bring himself to feel that about the man, not without discarding his mind and soul.

It is simply disgust at himself.

“Though if you are busy, I will not hold it against you if you decline.” There is a familiar smile, soft and open and unbearably cruel in its sweetness and acceptance.

Kiran almost declines then, but something stops him. Perhaps selfishness or a memory—he certainly remembers his apology to Lucius—but he hesitates.

Whatever the reason, he loathes the way his heart feels after Lucius smiles, wide and lovely as always, as he hears his answer.

* * *

The hill is crowded when they arrive, and Kiran worries, as his nature to do. What if they couldn’t find a comfortable spot?

Thankfully, after a few moments of walking, Raven waves them over. Nearby, Kiran sees Raigh, chatting with Rhajat. Around them, Kiran spots a few other Heroes—Julia and Shigure, Azura and Michalis, and even a few of the more…”difficult” Heroes like Valter, Ursula, and Narcian.

The spot itself is rather nice—underneath a tree and with a picnic blanket set out. No doubt, Raven had arrived early to scout for favorable locations.

Sitting down, Kiran leans back against the tree, shifting until he finds a comfortable placement.

It isn’t much longer until the festival’s closing ceremony begins, and the fireworks start. Certainly, the mages are most likely in place.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Lucius speaking with Raven. He couldn’t quite hear them, not with the chatter from the hill’s other visitors, but he sees Lucius pass him a wrapped box—most likely the soba maki he had ordered before leaving the noodle stand.

Kiran expects him to chat longer with Raven—until the fireworks begin—but to his surprise, after a few more moments, Lucius ceases and walks over towards him.

“May I sit next to you?”

Wordlessly, Kiran scooches over, and Lucius sits down. Even with the small distance between them, Kiran can feel the heat radiating from the man’s body.

“Thank you.” Lucius’s breath comes in visible puffs. The night is chilly today, not intolerable but much colder than the previously pleasant winter evenings.

It is a little joke of sorts by Jack Frost, a final jest before the year rolls over.

With their close proximity, it is all but impossible to notice what Lucius is wearing, or rather, what he isn’t.

He hadn’t changed his outfit all that much despite the cold. The fabric is still thin, more meant to endure Elibe’s milder climate than an Askr winter. He had added a scarf and a pair of mittens of course, but it isn’t enough for the current weather in Kiran’s opinion.

(By the shade of the purple, they were most likely gifts from Raigh. Who else would choose that particular color?)

Kiran isn’t all too cold despite the weather; his outfit assures that. The turtleneck warms his neck and arms, insulating heat, and his gloves protect his fingers. This isn’t even to mention his coat.

Beside him, Lucius breathes, puffs of air still visible.

Perhaps it is the devil’s work or perhaps some other trickster, but an idea forms in Kiran’s head. It is foolish, one that reinforces Corrin’s words in his mind, but it is his, something that he couldn’t quite resist.

He would be fine; his turtleneck is warm.

There is a hint of curiosity in Lucius’s eyes as Kiran strips off his outer garment, though it quickly turns into gratitude when Kiran hands him his coat. They are not the same height, but it would serve well enough until they returned to town.

The chill nips his skin slightly, but there is a terrible heat in his chest.

Tonight, the fireworks are bright—blooming in the dark not unlike the warmth in his heart.

* * *

In his dreams tonight, he returns to the palace, albeit to a different section. Certainly, the décor remains much of the same—crystalline statues, frosted windows, and the mirror corridors. Although, there is a slight difference from his last visit, a new variable in the paalce’s repetitive hallways.

On his left are doors. He tries them of course, but the doorknobs do not turn, not even a centimeter.

Much like last time, the only thing Kiran can do is continue on. The statues watch, mindful of his presence in their domain, and the light shimmers—beauty only refracted and accentuated by the ice-like interior.

It almost feels like hours before he reaches the end of his destination, a large set of double doors—carved vines intertwining with eternally leaping deer and watching wolves.

It is an old habit, one that he hadn’t shaken off yet, but he rubs one of the deer, the one closest to the center, with his forefingers before attempting to open the door.

To his relief, the door, despite its size, opens easily, sliding cleanly and silently.

The room is rather small and bare for what the entryway would imply. A fireplace sits to the side—fire crackling. In front of it, two accent chairs are arranged in the classic position—not unlike what he often saw in old Christmas specials.

Further towards the back of the study, a few chairs surround the table. There isn’t much to be said about the walls either. They are undecorated for the most part, lacking in both paintings and kingdom-identifying banners. From the right, near the bookshelf, light enters from an uncovered window, each pane swirling—a trick of the light he supposes.

Though, that is not the most alarming aspect of the room.

That particular title would belong to the woman sitting in the chair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did write Corrin with the implication that he is trans (as by the mentions of Kana and Dwyer) though it's not really relevant. You can assume fantasy dragon magic or adoption or whatever if you so prefer. It's not really relevant to this work's grand scheme. I think he is rather perceptive compared to the canon version as well, but it's essentially my own little interpretation and a nod towards how popular matchmaking is in modern FE games. Furthermore, he, like his counterpart, is older than when the events of their game took place as well. Though unlike his counterpart, Corrin went on a less "idyllic" path than retirement.
> 
> I also made a mix of western and eastern assortments with F!Corrin's scene since much like her heritage, her own life is a mixture of things—not really definite or certain. Symbolically, it represents both the bitterness and sweetness of her life, her upbringing, and her own current state. There's other bits and pieces like that in this work. Rather repetitive of me to state honestly, but I don't want to imply that this is the only bit of symbolism in this chapter or the work or that other side characters never have important to them.
> 
> You also get to see a glimpse of the politics of everything—with Corrin's world taking prominence this chapter. Askr (and Zenith as a whole) have theirs as well hinted at in the passing mentions of history, warfare, and such so far (ex. the Jade shop). Kiran doesn't get a full explanation for everything because, well, as stated before, he is rather narrow-focused. He doesn't really see the big picture. I actually did have to draft societies for all the named kingdoms in FEH, but much like many things, it's to accentuate, not to overtake the work's main focus. I also have a timeline set with the days and dates, so I do try to keep a continuity for this.
> 
> We also have more regional dishes here such as the Mapo Tofu, but the assumption can be made that they developed independently in Zenith with the same name as Kiran's world did.
> 
> Why Jakob? I like Jakob a lot, and he was my S-Support for M!Kiran with the Gay Fates hack. But on a less superficial note, it essentially comes down the idea of acceptance, childhood familiarity, and loyalty. Much like Robin/Libra, it also stems from drafts I never published (though they aren't necessary works to understand this). And much like the last chapter, you can see even more background relationships such as with Hoshido route Takumi/F!Corrin. And I am aware that the Hoshidan flying mounts are called Tenma, but I decided not to go with that since the differences are rather minuscule outside of the "accepts male riders" thing and the linguistics.
> 
> As an aside, Libra from the last chapter isn't necessarily talking about just art. I think it is rather obvious, but I do use the end notes to give more background to those who prefer a more "guided" (or less "reader-interpretation") reading. And on Kiran's art, it's not random words it's impressionism, at least for his second piece.
> 
> And on an unrelated note, my BL no-NG+ is going well. Rather easy honestly, but I blame the poor map design and enemy unit builds and the fact that the BLs have the best starting roster overall. I'm using F!Byleth since the male one doesn't get S-Supports with Ashe or Dimitri unfortunately.
> 
> And if you have been with me thus far, thanks for reading!


	7. Eliduc

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ultimately, growth requires practical experience rather than simply knowledge from books. Kiran finds that Zenith is not as idyllic as he would like it to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's title comes from Marie de France's Breton lai "Eliduc." You might know of the story by a different character, Tristan of the Round Table. The general story frame is there.

At the dawn of creation

Who sowed the seeds of love?

From the strong passion of breeze and moonlight they came.

So in this world of sweet longing

On a day of distress, in an hour of loneliness,

Fain would I impart my senseless grief

By singing this _Dream of Red Mansions_

To mourn the Gold and the Jade.

— “Prologue to the Dream of Red Mansions,” Cao Xueqin

“Hello Summoner. I apologize for the strangeness of our meeting, but I had no other way of contacting you.”

Her voice is even and authoritative, but not unbearably cold or aloof. Rather, there is a hint of warmness—soothing and comforting as a hug or a parent’s heartbeat. Perhaps it is a contrary description, but Kiran could not describe it as anything else.

It is the sort of voice one would expect from a mother rather than a young woman in her early twenties.

She makes a motion for him to sit in the chair opposite to hers, and he complies. In his opinion undoubtedly, it is the best decision at the moment.

What else could he do? He is in an unfamiliar location with an unfamiliar woman. Even with Breidablik at his waist, what could he do? It is not an artefact focused on offense or injuring another. He could not shoot her if worst came to worst. Furthermore, in the hypothetical case where Breidablik held offensive capabilities, what if he missed? The woman in front of him is an unknown variable, and hidden blades and magic are commonplace sights in Zenith.

Even the frailest of blossoms could hide a serpent.

He is not silver-tongued either—lacking in a genius’s wit like Robin and the natural, easygoing charm of Corrin. Certainly, he held the capacity for planning, and his personality is not entirely intolerable, but he is not them. He could not calculate risks five steps ahead and four to the side like Robin nor did he have Corrin’s amiability—an inherent charisma that captivated people and lulled them into discarding their animosity.

After sitting, Kiran surveys the woman in front of him, and she to him. She is a rather tall woman—that was keenly apparent even with her current position—garbed in light blues and whites. Kiran is not quite familiar with her dress. Certainly, he could discern that she came from a colder climate—her furred dress sleeves and the thick fabric of her garment allude to that—but he is not familiar with Zenith’s other kingdoms and certainly not with their cultural fashion.

Her hair is rosy red in color, bordering on pale pink—the color of a seashell—and arranged in odd asymmetrical braids. A golden star-shaped charm dangles from her right braid, and her left braid is tied with a feathery fabric band. A headdress adorned with two silvery roses rests atop her head.

Her fair face is conventionally pretty, with high cheekbones, an aquiline nose, and round, kind eyes. A muted pink, almost unnoticeable, adorns her lips and blushes her cheeks, complimenting the cerulean of her eyes.

After a few more moments, she speaks again.

“I understand these are strange circumstances, Summoner, but please understand, I do not mean harm to you or to your companions. I merely desire to speak with you.”

Kiran remains silent, still guarded. Certainly, it would not do to trust strange women in strange castles upon a first meeting.

His distrust is obvious to her.

“I understand your reluctance, but I am willing to work for your trust.”

She folds her hands upon her lap, the picture of elegance.

“To start, let me provide some information about myself. I am a priestess of my kingdom, or rather, I am a priestess-in-training. I am the eldest of my sisters and the second-oldest among my siblings. I excel in wind magic and divination, particularly the art of scrying.”

After finishing, she smiles, easy and kind.

Kiran isn’t quite sure what to believe. Unquestionably, giving one’s affinities is a sign of trust—one could determine weaknesses from that after all—but how truthful could her statement be?

She is still a stranger after all.

Her smile fades slightly as she notices his hesitation.

“Then perhaps my name?”

One could obtain many things from a name, false or otherwise. If it is truthful, one could figure out a stranger’s loyalties, or at the very least, their homeland. If it is false, one could discern an assailant’s interests—whether they sought to deceive to stir up animosity by giving another’s name or simply to obtain information among many other possibilities. There are many things one can obtain from a name.

Additionally, there is one other factor that favored the woman’s claims.

She had not killed or even attempted to harm him yet.

Thus, he nods, an affirmation.

“Very well then. My name is Gunnthrá.”

* * *

It is difficult to wake up and get back into routine on the first day of the next year. As always, whether one is a salaryman, a mage or another profession, it is difficult to return to work after lazing about.

Kiran is no exception, but like everyone else, he must.

Walking about the castle, he can see the aftermath of New Year’s Eve. From soldier to servant to even the occasional Hero, everyone seemed sluggish and unenthused. In some cases, he notices the telltale signs of a hangover.

But like everyone else, they must continue.

* * *

Kiran remembers his dreams of course. He could chalk up one or even two comparable dreams to happenstance or some other Freudian excuse, but three is simply too much. Furthermore, Gunnthrá’s presence does not help.

She had been too lucid, too sensible, for a supposed hallucination. There had been no lunacy, no hint of dream logic, in her actions.

Thus, he, in search of Alfonse, finds himself on the way to the library today. On particularly sunny days such at this, Alfonse often enjoyed reading in the solitude of the library.

He could look for someone else of course, but Anna is busy with overseeing the festival cleanup, and Sharena is not all too versed in matters pertaining to individuals outside of Askr. She has a basic understanding of other cultures of course, but it would not be enough to determine Gunnthrá’s origins.

Furthermore, between Anna and Alfonse, Alfonse is the more proficient of the two when it comes to cultural dress—a perk of his near-encyclopedic knowledge. If Gunnthrá is a pseudonym, then he would at least have the lead with her manner of dress and her abilities.

(Of course, he understands that the woman could have disguised herself, especially in a dream, but there isn’t much else to go on. At the very least, Alfonse would likely be able to narrow down the list of possibilities.)

Thankfully, Alfonse is in the library as he should be.

“Summoner? What brings you here today?” Alfonse’s gaze is inquisitive. Kiran spends time in the library of course. He is an avid reader, but he and Alfonse often had different schedules. While Kiran preferred to visit during the late evening, Alfonse favored the time just before lunch.

“Ah, Alfonse. I need to ask you something. It’s about my dreams.”

Alfonse raises an eyebrow at that, not out of dismissiveness but rather curiosity.

“Oh? Is it nightmares? If so, I think the infirmary should have a tonic or tea for that.”

“Ah, no.” Kiran is a bit sheepish at that. He should have been clearer. Though, how did one broach such a subject without appearing delusional or overly paranoid?

“It has to do with a woman. I keep seeing in her my dreams.”

“Oh. Uh, I appreciate the amount of trust you have in me, but I do not think I am the best-suited for lov—”

“No!” Thankfully, the library is vacant outside of the two of them—a consequence of festival cleanup and other such duties of course.

A faint blush tinges both of their cheeks. Neither of them are particularly comfortable with love nor courtship.

“I mean—sorry for shouting—but the woman in my dreams spoke to me, lucidly I mean. I think she might be a mage or something of that sort.”

It isn’t a particularly eloquent statement, but it serves its purpose.

Alfonse’s eyes grow serious at that.

“Are you sure? What did she look like? Did you learn anything else about her?”

Alfonse closes his book then, making sure to place a bookmark first.

It is a bit surprising how easily Alfonse believes him, but Kiran begins anyway.

After Kiran’s explanation finishes, Alfonse speaks, “Your description matches up with Gunnthrá, one of Nifl’s royals. Though, I have not seen her since the arranged marriage fell through, but Nifl’s royalty are known for their skills in dreamwalking.”

“Arranged marriage?” It isn’t particularly relevant to their current conversation, but Kiran is curious as always.

“Ah…it was years ago, but Sharena was originally promised to Nifl’s crown prince—to tie our kingdoms together in an alliance. Though our father eventually reconsidered; he had not wanted to anger Múspell. Of course, we still trade with them, but outside of supplying weapons and the trade, we don’t interfere in their inter-kingdom rivalries all too much.”

Kiran vaguely recognizes those names. He knows of Nifl as an excellent source of wine imports (courtesy of Virion) and of its cold climate, and Múspell is an inferno, but otherwise, both kingdoms are complete mysteries. While he had studied Nifl and Múspell briefly as a part of his tactician training, it had not been the priority. Instead, it had been something assigned to him as extra reading material.

He had not ignored it of course, but there are dozens of kingdoms, states, and provinces. He had not been able to get to them all yet.

Perhaps, Alfonse recognizes his confusion, but he explains, “Nifl is a kingdom to the east. Despite their climate or perhaps because of it, they are a nation known primarily for their crafts—porcelain, alcohol, that sort of thing—and their merchants. Their wyverns in particular are unique; they can thrive indefinitely in the cold as well as in the warmer temperatures here. Unlike most members of their species, they do not experience brumation. That particular trait, combined with the treacherous mountain ranges, makes Nifl a difficult place to invade and defend against. Most wyverns and pterippi would be unable to survive a full campaign without extensive care.”

Alfonse pauses for a moment to catch his breath before continuing.

“They’re also known, unsurprisingly, for their wind magic—primarily the spell branches dealing with frost. On Múspell, they are a nation of conquerors and miners. Their lands, despite the rather harsh conditions, are home to a plethora of minerals and gems. You can consider them an almost-opposite to Nifl really, both in climate and in foreign affairs. Nifl—outside of trade agreements and matters relating to national defense—almost never interferes in another nation’s dealings. Honestly, I believe that if their climate and relationship with Múspell were not as they are, they would have already turned to an isolationist policy.”

“Why would Múspell invade if their resources are plentiful? Couldn’t they trade?” That didn’t make much sense to Kiran.

Alfonse’s voice is patient, as if expecting Kiran’s questions. Undoubtedly after months of working with him, he should be prepared for Kiran’s inanity.

“Because minerals cannot feed a nation, Summoner. Certainly, their fertile soils lend well to farming, but most edible plants cannot survive the heat of Múspell. The people that live there survive by hunting what little creatures roam there—primarily smaller game and the occasional deer and wyvern. Furthermore, there are only so many minerals one needs—whether for creating a staff or simply for ornamentation. There are only so many willing buyers, especially with their ruler’s…temperament.”

Kiran prods a bit more.

“Temperament?”

“Yes, temperament. Múspell’s ruler is a difficult man, charismatic but difficult. He is prone to invading and destroying other kingdoms, both for their lands and for his own enjoyment. That is part of the reason why my father withdrew from the arranged marriage with Nifl, and why we only supply weapons to them now rather than engaging directly. Nifl and its surrounding kingdoms are a buffer between Askr and Múspell. While we appreciate their contributions, Askr does not want to directly anger Múspell bring attention to ourselves.”

“But, back to the matter at hand.” Alfonse, smart man that he is, cuts off Kiran’s next question. Otherwise, they would most likely be there for hours—or until someone sought them for dinner anyway.

“While it truly may be Gunnthrá, I would be cautious on what information you share with her and how you act, both for Askr’s safety and for your own. I would also advise you to be careful on how attached you may become to her.”

Alfonse’s words are not all too out of character; he holds the same view on Heroes of course. Though, his track record isn’t all too clean on that aspect. Kiran does notice how often he spends time with Eliwood and Reinhardt after all.

“I would suggest that you to buy some talismans and perhaps a dreamcatcher as well. I personally do not believe in such things—evil spirits and the like—but it does not hurt to be careful. If you choose to do so, ask Anna for more details. She is more knowledgeable on those matters.”

Conversation continues, progressing to lighter subjects such as tonight’s dinner (carrot is still on the menu unfortunately), book recommendations, and the new recruits’ training.

Later, as lunchtime approaches, Kiran bids Alfonse a farewell and makes his way towards the dining hall.

Certainly, they could walk together, but Alfonse has always been a late arrival to meals.

* * *

For the next few nights, Gunnthrá does not appear in his dreams—neither as a doppelgänger nor as herself. Rather, his dreams are surprisingly normal, bland and fleeting. Neither nightmare nor delight, they fade from memory upon waking.

On Askr itself, life returns to normalcy for the most part. He meets with the other tacticians, reviews reports and paperwork with Anna and Alfonse, and so forth.

However, not everything remains the same—the essential segments are different.

There is a burning in his chest—a cacophony akin to Rome’s burning. He wants to drown it, drag it to the depths like a mermaid to a guileless sailor, but he cannot, for it is formless, apparent only in its malicious passion. Like the roots of a cypress, it burrows deeply into his heart and upheaves any semblance of rationality.

He cannot drown out the Sirens—no beeswax would suffice.

Certainly, he had hoped that it would fade after the excitement of the Winter Festival—reset with the New Year’s—but it does not. Rather, it threads its tendrils throughout his being, dispersing madness like dandelion seeds.

It is a jest played by Eros or perhaps a mistake by Puck. Whatever the reason or source, it does nothing to dispel the charm laid upon his soul or the chains that draw him towards Gehenna.

It is a weakness of the spirit and heart. Simply, mere words should have not drawn such a reaction nor should it have caused such a dilemma.

However, what he loathes most is the humming of his heart—strings plucked like a guqin—and the yearning that accompanies it.

It is a failing on his part—a twisted desire for midsummer’s dream to become daybreak’s actuality.

And simply, that is what he despises most.

* * *

To melt into the role of narrator and to call upon the Muses, that is certainly easier.

It is easier to become someone else than to consider one’s thoughts.

Today, he becomes Atalante, fleeing from her suitors and on another, he is a nameless phoenix returning home in search of a companion. Again and again, their lives intertwine, dovetailing into his own.

Certainly, that is the fate of a storyteller, to be a vessel for another’s tale.

Whether one truly lived or if one existed only in fantasy or perhaps a reality distorted by exaggeration, it is the duty of the storyteller to speak, to continue an existence long past and to chase after another’s satisfaction.

Perhaps tomorrow, he will sail on the wine-dark sea.

* * *

Today, Anna calls him into her office. It is expected of course; he had asked her to procure him some talismans after all.

(He could have asked Tharja or Henry, but even after months of working together, he isn’t quite comfortable with them or rather, they had become no less intimidating.)

Anna’s office is a small place, tucked into the corners of one of the higher floors. Despite what he materialism would suggest, her office isn’t all too decorated. A potted plant—leaves green and newly watered—sits near the window, curtains ajar and sunlight peering in. Two bookshelves line the walls behind her desk, and a plush rug covers the stone flooring.

Overall, it a quaint sort of place, more fitting for a soldier than commander.

The talisman is small, fitting into the palm of his hand and circular in shape like a coin. A red ribbon is knotted through the coin’s center. It shimmers in the light.

“Keep it beside you as you sleep alright?”

Kiran nods, ready to leave until he hears Anna’s voice again.

“Though, that isn’t all I need to speak to you about today. Maybe you can take a seat?”

Her voice is uncharacteristically serious.

The chair is uncomfortable, especially with Anna’s gaze on him.

His thoughts race—from the reasonable to the unreasonable. Did he forget to turn in a report? Was he going to be dismissed? Or perhaps she wanted to reprimand him for improper conduct?

(Anna is kind, easy to approach despite her title of commander. But, he also remembers his younger years, when a boy—name erased by the sand of the hourglass—had appeared too feminine, too out of the ordinary. It had started small, ribbing here and there as boys are prone to, until it simply wasn’t.

Stolen gym clothes, a dislocated shoulder from a foul in basketball, and broken fingers in a doorway.

“Boys will boys” as the saying goes.

Even the girls had gotten in on it in their own little way. As children are prone to do—especially in a town like Watersmeet—they gossip, twisting the truth until it suits their fancies. Even the most amicable of the bunch hadn’t interfered, only listened as one would listen to the morning radio.

But, he could not blame them. That would speak to hypocrisy, a pretense and mockery of Lady Columbia. He certainly hadn’t done anything either. He had merely dimmed the blinds and turned elsewhere—a wallflower as someone would call it. Perhaps it had been too self-absorbed, but certainly what else could one expect?

As much as he wishes otherwise, heroes only existed in fairy tales—Charlemagne’s paladins, the Knights of the Round Table, bold Heracles, the list went on.

It had escalated until it simply…stopped—rope knotted and dangling from a branch too low.

It had been on the local news, nothing requiring national attention. It had simply been a normalcy, something that one didn’t talk about in polite company and another town secret to bury behind the barn.

Certainly, those sorts of matters would be a blemish on transcripts, but it had been easy enough to wipe it away—spilled water upon a coffee table.

Even the most kind of beings could become a beast in the right company.)

It is a bit foolish, but it nags at him in those few moments.

Her eyes soften as she looks at him, fidgeting in his chair. Her ponytail bobs as she leans forward, elbows resting upon her desk.

“Loosen up. I’m not here to reprimand you.”

Kiran relaxes somewhat at that, though nervousness still pervades his veins. No sane person would be comfortable in their boss’s office in such a situation.

“I don’t really know how to ask this, so I’ll be frank. What do you plan to do when the war is over?”

“Huh?” His surprise is audible, and his relief is palpable.

Anna is patient. “I mean, do you plan to go home or do you want to stay with us? Obviously, I’d prefer if you stay, but we aren’t keeping you prisoner.”

Did he want to return to his world? Certainly, he had thought of his parents and of Watersmeet, but he hadn’t given all too much thought to returning. There are luxuries that he misses, but those are certainly not the deciding factor.

However, as simple as the decision should theoretically be, he isn’t quite sure. Askr is a nice place, one that plays on his childhood daydreams of heroism, but it doesn’t quite feel like home should. He enjoys Zenith’s eccentricities and undoubtedly the people as well, but it—like Watersmeet—does not feel like home.

“You don’t have to decide now if you’re not ready. Our war with Embla is nowhere near over. I just want you think about it ya know? Don’t want it to be a last-minute decision or anything like that.”

That is a particularly easygoing answer, but it soothes him, nonetheless.

“Also, a reminder and last thing before you leave, don’t forget to pack. We’re making our way to another altar in a few days, near the border with Embla.”

Kiran nods before standing.

Thoughts swirling, he leaves.

Why isn’t it an easy answer?

* * *

“Why do you fight?”

It is a trite sort of question, one expected from a grade schooler or perhaps a B-list movie, but it encapsulates his doubts.

Certainly, why did _he_ fight? There are the initial ideas of grandeur and heroism, and those indubitably contribute to his own ideals, but are they the only justifications? There must be something more, something after the storm—a rainbow after the flood so to speak.

He could consider the idea of peace, make it wholly his, However, it rings hollow—the chime of a shrine’s bell, heard and then stilled for prayer. To say and to believe are two entirely different beasts. Of course, one could lie, but it is akin to a moral demise.

Certainly, he wants to answer the riddle in his heart rather than wait for the gaping jaws of the Sphynx.

Perhaps then he could decide.

Lucius tilts his head inquisitively, eyes contemplative and hair golden like autumn wheat and falling gently like summer rain. It is an image that even Sif, high upon her seat, would envy.

(It is uncomfortable, exceedingly uncomfortable to stain his presence with his—ink droplet upon white silk—but he is selfish, as man ought to be. Their predecessors’ mistakes assured that.)

Today, they have returned to the infirmary—its stone walls familiar as always.

Kiran waits, already expecting the answer to be something noble or even selfless. Perhaps he wished to protect the weak? Or mayhap eradicate injustice?

He doesn’t quite expect Lucius’s answer, conflicting as it is with his image of the man.

“Because I have to.”

It is simple, concise and efficient.

The surprise in Kiran’s voice is obvious as he speaks.

“Really? What do you mean?”

He understands the basic implications of Lucius’s reply, but everything else is a mystery—shrouded in fog and lamplight.

Lucius hums, voice soothing as a river flowing and fingers deftly moving to tie the twine around his current project. Kiran doesn’t mind all too much. It isn’t a dismissive action, but merely something to do while he deliberates. Certainly, after all of their time together, he could understand that.

He waits until Lucius’s fingers cease, their owner finding an adequate answer.

Stopping his humming, Lucius replies again, “Because I have to. I dislike fighting, but I have to.”

“Oh, so you want to protect people?” That is simple enough to understand. Lucius didn’t quite outright say it, but he knows him well enough.

“In part, but I wish it could be otherwise. Violence…it is a ceaseless endeavor, is it not? Even as peace approaches, we—breath seized—await for the next struggle.”

Soft, sad, and pensive. Those are the words that describe Lucius’s eyes in that moment. It is quite unlike their last conversation on the matter.

He continues, “It is a foolish desire, but one that I hold, nonetheless. I wish that conflict did not exist, that disease did not exist, but that, in itself, is an impossibility.”

He sighs, weariness obvious. Perhaps it a bit of a strange thing to notice, but Lucius’s age is most apparent in this moment. Kiran notices the dark circles and the barest hint of fine lines at the corner of his eyes. In all likelihood, Lucius’s odd sleep schedule does not help matters.

A faint sigh once again, and a silence descends, difficult to bear.

“You told me a story of your world, yes? The one dealing with the reason for suffering?”

Lucius’s voice startles him, but Kiran nods. They have gone on quite the tangent, but it isn’t something that Kiran minds all too much. There must be a point to these detours.

“I apologize in advance if this offends you; I do not mean this as an insult, but I simply do not believe it—that there is a greater reason for suffering or that it is a punishment for some ancestor’s affront.”

He breathes, and Kiran notices the blue of his eyes—darkened as the deep sea—and the furrowing of his brow.

“Simply put, man…they are the one responsible for their fate and their actions. Assuredly, avarice exists in the hearts of men, but that is merely a consequence of free will—not of some greater sin. Likewise, we are responsible for using our gifts for the benefit of others.”

Kiran feels a sense of confusion at that, but he does not interject. Lucius does not seem like he is done speaking.

“To relate it to your initial question, I fight to protect others, yes, but perhaps it is a selfish desire as well, contradictory as it sounds.”

“How so?” Kiran cannot hide his confusion then.

“Do you ever think about the rivaling armies we face? The bandits? Not everyone we face can be considered corrupt. Certainly, banditry is not a moral endeavor, but do we consider the ethical implications of our actions in the midst of combat? Or perhaps the reasoning of our enemies? We do not. We seek only to survive—to protect and to live.”

Kiran shakes his head. He hadn’t given it all too much thought. Why would he in a war?

“Every existence upon this earth seeks to live—whether it be the fig tree, the swallow, or the lion. This awareness is both a gift and a curse—we seek to take because of an awareness of our own mortality, as a way to extend our lives, but it is also this understanding that connects us as living beings.”

There is a pause—a dip in the conversation—before Lucius continues.

“You think of me as a saint.”

It is not a question, but rather, a statement, one that Kiran could not disagree with, not without lying to the heavens and to all eyes watching.

“I find it flattering really”—a sweet laugh as clear and vibrant as a Wood Thrush, neither mocking nor conceited—“but I am not. I am as selfish as anyone else.”

Kiran wants to disagree, but Lucius continues anyway.

“I am afraid of death, and that is why I heal and why I fight. I am afraid of my loved ones perishing, and most of all, _I_ am afraid of dying.”

* * *

Tonight, he is no closer to finishing his portrait. In fact, he had discarded the old canvas—the layers thick with his mistakes. After an hour of painting (if his messy strokes could be called that), Kiran feels the heat of frustration.

Lucius’s words do not help either. They linger in his mind, evident as peach blossoms cascading in the wind. There is no anger of course (that would be unreasonable), but rather, his words do not help.

Kiran is no closer to understanding his own feelings nor is he closer to deciding.

Naturally, he has time; Anna had assured him, but it frustrates him, nonetheless.

Why should it be a hard decision? He has nothing waiting for him after all.

Perhaps, that is why he is on the way to the library—lantern in hand— rather than in bed. Kiran would rather stew in his thoughts over a book rather than in his bed. At least with the former, he could at least make a half-hearted attempt at distracting himself.

He expects to be alone in the library. Certainly, it had not been any different on his other visits.

The library is a massive place—bookshelves reaching towards the heavens and stuffed with words, both new and old. The shelves are finely crafted, made from a strong mahogany. Near each section, he sees a library ladder, set aside for the harder to reach books.

His steps are silent for the most part, muffled by the rug. Above from the cathedral ceiling, a chandelier hangs—prisms dangling like grape clusters from a branch.

Thus, it a bit of surprise when he stumbles upon Alfonse—sitting at a table beneath one of the windows. An oil lamp—light dimmed behind the glass but still visible—rests at the center of the table. Stacks of paper surround him, and an ink well, ink quill still dipped, sits near the oil lamp.

It is nowhere near as crowded as Robin’s desk, but it is a good impression.

His presence startles Kiran at first, especially with the added addition of moonlight. In the dim of the moon, Alfonse, at first glance, had seemed like a ghost—dark messy hair and pallid skin. Certainly, Askr Castle is ancient enough for the presence of spirits. Though, it simply could be a consequence of his American sensibilities. “Ancient” to an American meant a few hundred years, not thousands like for their oversea neighbors.

Perhaps it is an aftereffect of his conversations with Anna, but he is a bit more easily spooked nowadays. It isn’t intentional maliciousness of course, but Anna is fond of her ghost stories and of her hometown. It is only coincidence that the two tended to frequently coincide.

In particular, he had learned quite a bit about her hometown—a little place near the northwestern borders of Askr—and her family during their little leisure time chats. Anna is the middle child of three and the daughter of farmers. Personally, the latter bit of information is somewhat surprising. With her love of money, he would expect her to be related to merchants or mayhap, storekeepers, anything to do with coin and not the soil.

His surprise at the time had been obvious to Anna or perhaps, she was simply used to those sort of reactions. She had been goodhearted about it, anyway, playing off his surprise with a laugh and a tease.

“Yeah, I know right? You wouldn’t think I was a farmer. Well, “farmer-in-training” as mom would put it. I enjoyed it a lot as well, but my calling was simply different, ya know?” There is a bit of wistfulness in her voice.

He had asked about it of course, her calling. If she had enjoyed farming so much, why wasn’t that her vocation?

She had replied easy enough, bits and pieces about wanting to travel, tidbits about her family’s financial difficulties, and about her almost-prodigal affinity with the axe.

“…though most importantly, I wanted to change things, as childish as it sounds. Living near the border is hard, you know? We’re a farming village, but not one of the major suppliers for the nobility. Our king tries his best, but he must act in the interest of the group.”

She had sighed, hand pressed against her cheek and elbow upon her desk.

“Sharena and Alfonse are too young to remember, but the war with Embla used to be much worst when the Emblian emperor was in control—regular border skirmishes and raids, backroom dealings and spies, the whole shebang. Even afterwards, when the empress took control, we had multiple conflicts, always rogue” —she had made an air quote around that—"soldiers disobeying orders. Of course, the empress is a kind woman, by all accounts, genuine as well from what I heard, but she can only control so much without the support of her people and her advisors.”

She leaned forward then, ponytail bobbing with her movements.

“Of course, we still have spies and traitors now, but much less so. Who would be willing to tell with a ruler like Veronica? Her bloodthirstiness—combined with her age and without her father’s renown—actually plays into our favor. No _sane_ Askrian is going to risk her. She did publicly execute the advisors who put her into power alongside the few dissenters—wasn’t content with being a figurehead and all.”

She paused to catch her breath before continuing, “We lost some good people when she did that as well; you catch the weakest link, and you might catch them all. But anyways…enough prattle from me. To return to your original question and away from the boring history lesson, my village was often attacked during the war. Though we were always quite lucky—the dam breaking and washing away the Emblians’ equipment, one of the watchmen spotting them early, and so forth. On one occasion, I even heard them fleeing the forest, no fighting required—that place was always creepy, ya know? Weird shadows and bodiless voices, but also a reliable place for foraging, so it evens out I guess. Always hated going by myself though; I always made one of my sisters or the local boys go with me.”

Kiran had nodded, fascinated. It wasn’t often that he got to hear those sorts of tales from the source.

“Honestly, I think Askr was protecting us, doing what the king couldn’t. I mean, it’s understandable in his position, but not for us.” Despite her smile, there was no mirth in her eyes.

“But! That’s a bit depressing to end on, right? How ‘bout I tell you something more lighthearted as compensation?”

And thus, they had moved onto her town and to ghost stories—Anna’s idea of “lighthearted.” She talked about night hags, witches in the forest, and even a body that had been found in her neighbor’s well and the exorcism that followed—shaman, offerings, and spewing chicken blood and all.

Though perhaps it was lighthearted for her; it is something normal.

Whatever the reason, it certainly doesn’t stop the squeak that escapes his mouth—more fit for a mouse or a toy dog than a grown man—at what he had presumed to be a ghost.

“Summoner?” Alfonse squints. Despite the light of their lanterns and the moonlight from the window, the library is still quite dark and not at all helped by the rather overcast sky outside.

“Yeah, it’s me.” Kiran is embarrassed, but at the very least, Alfonse hadn’t commented on his squeak.

He makes his way towards Alfonse’s table, pulls out a chair, and sits down. Afterwards, he sets his lantern down next to Alfonse’s.

“What do you have there anyway? You’re usually not here at this hour.”

Alfonse shuffles the papers in front of him before organizing them into a neat stack.

“They’re reports from the eastern border. We’ve had an increasing number of refugees lately.”

That surprises Kiran, both in its content and for other reasons.

“Didn’t Anna ban you from taking reports for the week? You’re supposed to be focusing on training the recruits.”

It isn’t about withholding information, but rather, about Alfonse’s own work ethic. He works too much and rests too little.

(It actually reminds Kiran of someone else, but he wouldn’t quite say it out loud.)

As a result, after Alfonse’s stint during the Winter Festival, Anna had barred him from the reports as an attempt to lighten his self-imposed workload. Though, she could not strip him of all his duties, such as with the recruits. While they had many Heroes efficient with the sword, none of them held the trust of the recruits like Alfonse. They did not dislike them of course, but it is a matter of intimidation, stemming from the Heroes’ legends.

On Sharena, her proficiency lied with the spear, not with the blade. Thus, she could not take over Alfonse’s duties. Furthermore, she has already received the responsibility of reading Alfonse’s reports. Any more work and it would simply be a swapping of roles.

Alfonse’s reply is simple enough, perhaps a bit too nonchalant really.

“I took them from Anna’s office. That’s why I’m here actually. I thought it’d be too obvious if I returned to my room, so I came here.”

There is a bit of disbelief at that, but Alfonse had never really been on formal terms with Anna, at least during Kiran’s time here. Furthermore, that—Alfonse’s almost-petulant stubbornness—is another of his quirks. If he set his mind to something, he would strive to fulfill it.

“Aren’t you the least bit worried she’ll be mad?”

“Little bit, but this is more important.” He taps his stack of papers.

“Really?” Alfonse’s statement stirs a bit of curiosity.

“Yes. As previously state, Askr has been receiving a higher number of refugees lately. While that by itself would be a cause for concern, it is the fact that many of these people are from the east.”

Realization sets in.

“Oh! Múspell?”

Alfonse nods.

“Yes. Under normal circumstances, we would not be as worried about them, not with Nifl’s presence. They’re notoriously hard to invade as I’ve explained before, and those two kingdoms have always been in a stalemate, but…”

Alfonse frowns then.

“We’ve been receiving refugees from Nifl as well. Furthermore, Gunnthrá’s presence in your dreams is a cause for concern.”

Kiran does not quite get it, or rather, he doesn’t understand the overabundance of concern, not with Embla still active.

“Isn’t Askr well-fortified? You’ve been dealing with Embla for years, and now, there are Heroes here as well. Múspell doesn’t have any, right?”

“Yes,” Alfonse agrees, “However, war brings casualties. If we were to be sieged by Múspell, it would mean a conflict on both the western and eastern front. While we do have resources and a fairly sizable army, the cost would be massive, not to mention, the strife it would bring upon the vassals. Some will withdraw their support from the king.”

Alfonse sighs, glancing at the reports as if he wished for them to disappear.

“Though, at the moment, our greatest concern is the refugees. Askr cannot support them all. Some will turn to banditry as a result and wreak havoc upon the countryside, and the storehouses will eventually run out. Furthermore, their presence will raise concerns with the nobles as well.”

He sighs once more before turning towards Kiran.

“Thus, you can understand why I cannot rest, yes? Even for week.”

Kiran nods. He doesn’t agree entirely with Alfonse’s beliefs, but there isn’t much he can do about it. Even if he told Anna, Alfonse would simply find another way to achieve his goals.

He is a stubborn man.

* * *

In his dreams tonight, he returns to Gunnthrá’s study. The room is much the same as in his last visit, unchanging as a painting. He takes his seat across from her. Perhaps it is a bit of a bold move, but he’s quite sure that she would have invited him to anyway if he stood.

“Hello again, Summoner.”

Her voice is calm, maternal in nature.

He nods in return, not quite sure what to say. The talisman had not kept her at bay, but that did not necessarily mean she was trustworthy.

Despite his silence, Gunnthrá isn’t all too bothered. She only continues to speak—from simple matters such as today’s weather and the dinner menu to polite, but pointed, comments about his outfit.

(It isn’t all about aesthetic of course. The frayed sleeves of his overcoat are lightly tinted with brown and black—tea stains and quill ink. In another section, near his spine, the color is slightly off—a square of cream instead of milky white—from a makeshift repair in the World of Awakening. The bottom edges of his coat show signs of damage—leftovers from the first Tempest.

He doesn’t look slovenly. Rather, the coat creates a well-traveled look. However, it still isn’t quite the look that one would want for their tactician.)

Her comments should be obnoxious, invasive especially from a stranger, but it isn’t.

Rather, they remind him of his mother—smile still intact and eyes still present on him.

“You are traveling to Embla tomorrow, correct?”

That startles him out of his thoughts, and his eyes narrow. How would she know that?

He almost begins his question, but Gunnthrá starts first, already expectant of his question.

“I am a prophet in some respects. As I stated last time, one of my hobbies is divination.”

She tilts her head, smile still soft. She looks like a porcelain doll in some ways—akin to the figurines his mother kept in the china cabinet next to the grandfather clock. It is in her gaze, expectant and without doubt.

It isn’t quite human, or perhaps, Kiran had simply not been around enough people to discern.

She continues, “I did not spy on you of course, but my dreams often lead me towards the future, as unchanging as it is.”

“Unchanging?” Certainly, that isn’t a common view.

She hums before speaking, “Unchanging isn’t quite accurate, but it is similar enough. All paths eventually lead to the same place after all. It is only the journey that remains unique.”

She folds her hands. “But to continue, you are making your trip tomorrow, yes?”

Kiran nods. If she knew anyway, why did she need to ask? Perhaps it is simply for politeness’s sake.

“Good. Tread carefully with what you summon. Not everyone has a good heart, but that does not mean their advice is always unsound.”

Her words confuse Kiran, though Gunnthrá makes no effort to elaborate.

Perhaps it is merely a requirement for clairvoyants—the uncanny ability to be vague in every sense of the word.

He doesn’t quite understand her choice of words though.

Why “what?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're rising towards the climax of this work though I will say we are roughly not at the halfway point yet. I did check the character counts of the last two chapters, and they fit so there will be no changes to chapter count or update schedule unless something comes up.
> 
> Here, I'd like to draw one's attention to what Alfonse says. I think his, Anna's, and Sharena's words (along with what you see of the town) give more insight into the world of Zenith and into Askr (and its history) specifically. Whether they're right or not is up to the reader, but the information one can draw from their words is quite substantial. Personally, I think there is no right or wrong in the sense of black and white morality. Though with consideration of Kiran's role and his own hyper-focused nature, he isn't going to make some grand discovery and go on a diatribe. Personally, I dislike those in fiction. The Iceberg Principle and all.
> 
> Furthermore, the theme of perception is once again brought into play alongside the concept of morality, pedestals, and religion with Lucius and Kiran. Look at how Kiran describes him and how "nondescript" Lucius can be at times in this work. The kind and accepting healer, the one who seems to have all the answers, etc. 
> 
> How much of that is reality and how much of it is Kiran's own work? Certainly, Lucius is kind and gentle but how much of it is Kiran's own infatuation at play or his own embellishment? It is not to say it is all false, but Kiran, as always, is a narrow point of view. Similarly, other characters will also have their own views. However, do remember other parts of the story as well, such as with Anna's words this chapter. Nothing is a given in terms of answers. There is no black and white "this is bad and/or certain" in most cases. I think those sorts of answers should be left up to the reader.
> 
> And as a foreword for upcoming chapters, none of it was based on or inspired by Three Houses. As stated before, I distinctly made the drafts before release.


	8. Beauty is Truth, Truth Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ultimately, growth requires practical experience rather than simply knowledge from books. Kiran finds that Zenith is not as idyllic as he would like it to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, I apologize for the consecutive chapters, but I will not have time to post during the weekend. Today's chapter comes from a famous line from John Keats's "Ode to a Grecian Urn." He is a rather lovely poet, and his poems are a must-read if you are interested in learning about imagery and allusion in writing; he has a masterly way of handling words that I believe is useful to study no matter whether one is a poet or a short story/novel writer. I believe so anyway.
> 
> Due to the length of this chapter and next chapter + my own responsibilities in real life, next chapter will either be posted this weekend or next week (Sunday 16th being the final possible date). I cannot postpone it too much. Apologies again. <(_ _)>

Frost-locked all the winter,

Seeds, and roots, and stones of fruits,

What shall make their sap ascend

That they may put forth shoots?

Tips of tender green,

Leaf, or blade, or sheath;

Telling of the hidden life

That breaks forth underneath,

Life nursed in its grave by Death.

— “Spring,” Christina Rossetti

Árvakr keeps a good, steady pace alongside the other horses. Kiran still isn’t quite used to horseback—less than a year of training assures that—but he isn’t _as_ horrendous anymore. At the very least, the ostler no longer glares at him whenever he borrows a horse.

Though, he could not quite say that he was entirely comfortable—his form is less horrendous, yes, but it isn’t quite a comfortable experience per say. His body shifts with each bump, and his thighs rub against the saddle with each of Árvakr’s steps.

It certainly isn’t helped by the terrain. It is not a racetrack. The ground is uneven, a mixture of textures—blades of grass, broken branches, mud, and hard gravel. Thankfully, the mud isn’t all too slick or sticky nor had it claimed any of Árvakr’s horseshoes. Rather, it is a bit sandy, wet but not overly so.

Sadly, Árvakr isn’t all too much of a mudder, but she does well enough at a slower pace—neither a full gallop nor a trot.

(Whatever her preference, he would have to clean her hooves later anyway. The moisture isn’t all too good for her feet, and he needs to check for loose nails. He isn’t quite adept at fixing her horseshoes by himself yet, but he could practice and learn.)

Kiran jerks slightly as Árvakr sidesteps to avoid a particular large protrusion of rock.

He only hopes that they make it to monument soon. The sooner they finished their current task, the sooner they could return. Even with near-year in Askr, he isn’t quite used to the outdoors. He doesn’t loath, but decades of indoor comfort are hard to grow out of.

While the landscape is pleasant to look at, an inn bed is preferable to a bedroll.

* * *

They arrive at the monument two days later, or rather, they arrive at the outskirts of a forest. The monument itself would be

He isn’t quite sure on the reason for why they need this specific monument rather than the dozens of others located across Askr, but Anna had been strangely insistent on it.

By itself, it would not be strange—strong warriors are always in demand—but she had planned this trip since autumn equinox. Furthermore, her insistence on bringing Deirdre and Marth is a bit odd.

(Naturally, they had brought along other Heroes and soldiers as well—Roy, Zelgius, Micaiah, and a few others—but for the most part, their current group is small.)

Like the choice of monuments, it would not be an odd decision by itself. Despite her almost whimsical demeanor, Deirdre is a competent mage and the Holy Maiden of Verdane. Furthermore, her knowledge of forest terrain would be invaluable in their current situation. Of course, he understands that not all forests are the same—the edible plants and berries varied alongside the species of trees and elevation among many other factors—but nevertheless, the basic premises of survival and navigation remained the same.

On Marth, there is not much more that could be said that could not be summarized by his title, “Hero-King.” Alongside his various talents, he held possession of the Falchion as well.

However, what remains odd about Anna’s decision is her concurrent insistence on Lucina’s and Chrom’s non-involvement with the mission. Additionally, she had given the Shepherds various longer-term missions, many of which they were still on at the moment.

Of course, as expected of the commander, the Shepherds would finish their missions as soon as Kiran finishes his task here.

(Anna is good at these sorts of things—time management and persuasion. She really should have been the daughter of merchants. Otherwise, her ability borders on the supernatural, unnatural in her expertise and unexplainable.)

He had questioned her on it naturally—curiosity killing the cat as the saying goes—but her eloquence far outweighs his on matters such as this. She had made roundabout excuses and crafted errands for him to run, anything to avoid truly explaining.

The most she had replied with had been a simple, “You’ll understand why soon enough.”

It is a bit silly in Kiran’s opinion, but what could he do about it? Her position far outweighs his in terms of rank. He could question of course—Anna is a lenient leader in that regard—but he could not make her speak.

He could withhold his cooperation until she complied, but what sane person would? He is a guest in Askr, in Zenith. Furthermore, it would be incredibly childish of him, unfitting.

Whatever her reasoning, it would not remain a secret much longer.

* * *

The forest is dimly lit, flickers of sunlight edging into the darkness from the gaps in the canopy, and eerily quiet, almost completely lacking in wildlife. There are no squirrels scampering about, no woodpeckers tapping their melody, not even simply the marching of ants. There are no buzzing insects or even the trill of birdsong and flapping wings. There is simply silence—disturbed only by their intrusion and the soft breeze.

It is an unnatural sort of place—akin to an empty train station at noon.

Naturally, Deirdre had commented on it. Even if she had left the Spirit Forest, its laws—the laws of life—still remain with her, ingrained into her being.

Quiet is death—the presence of an apex predator, imminent and stalking. He could expect a tiger or some other manner of big cat—his books certainly suggest that—but the world, breath abate, had been still hours before their arrival, path vacant of both travelers and animals. The only sounds had been the clopping of horses and the chatter of their party.

(On their horses, they had been left outside of the forest with Zelgius. Certainly, the man is powerful, but his armor is heavy—not all too useful in this dense forest. The horses would not be of much use either—the close proximity of the trees and overhanging branches assures that.

It would be a waste of energy and time and a potential accident waiting to happen to bring the horses this far in. A startled horse most likely meant a broken leg—for man or for beast—and a potential mercy kill for the animal. Out here, once a horse became lame, they became useless as well. They had magic of course, but magic certainly couldn’t solve everything. It is one thing to heal a human—an innate understanding born from a shared species—and another to heal a beast.)

Overhead, during their ride towards the forest, the sky had been clear, devoid of clouds—nothing suggesting a storm. Certainly, that could not be the cause of the silence.

Deirdre’s words had been careful, cautious and unnerved. For someone whose home had been a forest, a woodland like this is akin to a stranger or jamais vu for her.

That, simply, is what “home” meant. Even if one left their place of origin, condemned it with all their might, or perhaps simply forgot, it remains still—foggy fingerprints on glass or worse perhaps, fractures upon the windowpane. One would be able to recognize their world even as they drifted away. Like a rowboat carried away by the currents of a stream, they would always remember home, etched into their heart.

The branches crack, and the ground creaks—mud, fallen leaves, and decomposing vegetation—underneath their boots. Their footsteps echo in the silence, accompanied by their breath and the sounds of slicing wood—Anna’s doing as she had decided to take the lead position and therefore, the role of path clearer.

Anna’s machete clears the branches and brush easy enough. With each swipe, they draw closer to the woodland’s heart and further into the maw of oddity. She has Nóatún of course, but the axe would not be of much use on their current venture. While it could clear forest paths easily enough, it isn’t a weapon made for cutting wood. The weights are distributed differently, disallowing for swift horizontal strokes like with the machete.

As they continue forward, Kiran wishes that Lucius had accompanied him. It is a foolish thought. The man had been particularly busy this week in the infirmary, and Anna had suggested a break for him. Of course, Lucius would most likely not rest, as his nature, but the comforts of the castle are objectively better than their outdoor travels. At the very least, Lucius could sleep at a desk rather than in intervals—a necessary evil of patrol shifts.

(There is a sense of calmness that encircles him whenever he is around Lucius, mild and sweet like morning dew. It is a comforting sort of embrace—if it could be described as that—that makes him yearn for more. It is selfish, despicable, a scoundrel’s desire, but it surfaces anyway, like flotsam upon the sea of his shifting heart.)

As irrational as it is, he also wishes that they had brought the horses. He understands the reasons for why they could not be brought, but he would feel more at ease if Árvakr were here. At the very least, she would produce some noise—unlike the members of their current group.

Their current group is small in size, having split into two just before entering the forest. One group remains at the entrance—they are fairly close to the Askr-Embla border after all—and the second group, Kiran’s party, holds responsibility for locating the summoning monument.

They had left the chattier members at the entrance—not out of disdain but rather, coincidence—alongside Roy, Micaiah, and Zelgius. If worse came to worst, all three would be capable leaders for the soldiers. In particular, Micaiah’s previous experience with leading a smaller group—the Dawn Brigade—makes her an invaluable asset in this scenario. This is not to say that the other two are lesser. Rather, they simply have more experience with larger groups or as in Zelgius’s case, a function as a one-man army.

Kiran’s group—seven in total if Kiran included himself—consists of the aforementioned Deirdre and Marth, a few soldiers, and Anna.

The group is quiet, lacking in the playful banter that pervaded the air earlier. Whether due to the forest or Deirdre’s words, everyone is tense, focused on reaching the destination. Even Anna, with all consideration to her normal liveliness, could not produce a joke.

Kiran, walking in the center notices how Marth’s hand clenches his cape—both as a means of keeping it clean and as a method of comfort—and how his other lingers over his blade. Deirdre walks beside him, tome slightly ajar and held in a way where it could quickly be flipped open for spellcasting.

Both have attempted to conceal their movements, not wanting to alarm the other members of their group, but they hadn’t really succeeded in Kiran’s opinion. Even if they had relaxed, he doubts the soldiers keeping the rearguard would relax. He feels the anxiety of their eyes on him as they walk.

That is simply the nature of this forest. It is foreboding in a way that could only be described as primal—staggering and greater than them. It is akin to the feeling of awe that one would feel in St. Peter’s Basilica or atop Calvary and Mount Tai’s Jade Emperor Peak. It is a feeling of insignificance, the terror of something greater juxtaposed with the sublime.

Whether one lacked faith or believed in a higher being—the old gods, kami, or even something as facetious as the deities of Lovecraftian lore—it is a feeling etched into the core of the living, a primitive fear fueled by the need for survival.

With bated breath, they continue forward towards the heart of the forest. Above, the leaves sway, flecks of light spirited away into the dark.

* * *

After what feels like hours, they stop to rest in a small clearing. Though, rest did not necessarily mean relaxation. The air is heavy, and the world is dim, noon sun hidden by the increasingly thickening canopy.

Sitting down and with his back against a tree, Kiran surveys the area. Four of the soldiers are to the left, picking berries, primarily juniper berries from what he could see, and mushrooms—oyster mushrooms, wood ears, and velvet shanks—on Anna’s orders. While the taste of this strand of juniper berry would be awful by itself—too bitter for most people’s taste—Anna had wanted them for medicinal purposes.

Across from them, Deirdre sits on a stump, her tome open and reading. Her dress is near-spotless, a bit odd considering its coloration and their current location, but it is another mystery, he supposes. Marth and the last soldier, a mage, are not present, having taken the shift for patrols. While the area is been lifeless—devoid of any manner of beast—it did not do to be careless.

In his concentration, he does not notice Anna until she plops down next to him and offers her waterskin.

He accepts it with thanks.

“Strange place this is, huh?” Her voice resounds in the clearing, splitting the silence.

He nods, his mouth still full of water.

“Marth and Dvalinn should be back soon, and we can leave then. The location shouldn’t be much farther according to my sources.”

She trails off before continuing, “When we get there…I want you to be careful.”

That is certainly ominous, but summoning had always held a tinge of danger. Certainly, that had been evident in Valter’s summoning for example. The man had attempted to gut him before Effie had restrained him.

Though, Breidablik should protect him from harm; protection should be an obvious function of a summoning tool. It certainly had protected him before, allowed him to force a command, but did it have a limit, a cruel catch?

Certainly, that is how those sorts of items work in the legends of his world. They were near limitless in power until it was truly inconvenient.

* * *

The monument stands at the center, atop a stone platform. It is an uncanny sort of place. Despite its presumed age, the monument shows no sign of wear—no fractures or the expected erosion. The stone is as pristine as the day it was carved. Though, perhaps, that could be attributed to its nature as a mystical location, a la the Boudhanath stupa or the Drombeg stone circle of his world.

However, not everything is explainable. The area around the platform is a perfect circle—devoid of grass and dirt visible. On the platform itself, it is as unspoiled as the monument. There are no vines encroaching, no cracks from frost heaves or the intrusion of tree roots, nothing. Even the leaves of the canopy do not fall upon the stone. It is an almost snapshot of eternity—a glimpse of sorts into Shangri-La or Avalon, untouched by man and time alike.

As he walks past Anna to take his place, he feels a pat on his shoulder and a pouch is placed in his hand.

“Remember what I said. Be careful, alright?”

He nods.

Stepping onto the platform feels like defilement—blasphemy against the natural order. His boots, dirty from the earlier mud, leaves thin outlines upon the grey stone. It feels like encroachment, akin to an intrusion into the Peach Blossom Spring or perhaps the New World—La Santa María dropping her anchor.

The moment he steps upon the platform, it feels like the world is turning, staring at him for his wrongdoing. Perhaps it is merely a consequence of stress—certainly, the forest’s atmosphere is odd—but that thought does nothing to quell the oddness, the nervousness shaking his being and beating his heart like a drum.

There isn’t much else to do but begin. The sooner he finishes, the sooner they could leave.

With a rush of air, the monument activates.

Red. Blue. Green. Grey.

The colors remain much the same—rose petal red, ocean blue, jade green, and sheep’s wool grey.

There isn’t much different between this session and his previous ones, certainly not enough to justify trekking across Askr for it solely. More often than not, any new monument they visited was a side-trip—a detour from an already existing mission.

Time passes, and not much changes. Focusing on summoning, a routine, distracts him from the nervousness of his earlier self, but it only helps to an extent. He feels stares on his back, the familiar pinprick of being watched. It could merely be the rest of his party, but Kiran feels a sense of doubt of at that.

From circles of red to mixtures of blues and greys and the occasional green, each circle ranges from monochrome to multicolored. He goes through what feels like dozens of circles.

(Though, it would be more accurate to say a dozen and a quarter or more succinctly, sixteen full rings.)

However, his results are not all too good; he mostly acquires extra shards of Heroes he has already met.

Some of them are useful of course; he obtains another one of Lucius and two for Virion. But, there is still a sense of disappointment. Shards are not new Heroes after all. Furthermore, they had obviously traveled out here for a reason—to come home with only a few shards would be a shame.

Eventually, his pouch dwindles, no longer fat like a hen with orbs. Rather, it does a fairly good impression of a deflated balloon.

He has one summon left before they can leave. Behind him (after a quick glance), he sees the frustration on Anna’s face. Clearly, this turn of events was not what she planned or wanted.

He lines up his last set—five in total—and fires. The five fly, merging mid-path and colors still shifting. To Kiran, it almost looks like the colors are fighting for dominance, for the right to overtake and dye the sphere with their hue. It is a bit odd certainly. It often takes a few seconds for the colors to form, but he had never seen such a viciousness during his time as Summoner.

Or perhaps, it is simply his imagination. The forest had certainly made their minds wander; his is no exception either.

After a few more moments, the orb finally settles on green. Kiran automatically reaches for it, no longer dazzled after hundreds of similar attempts, but hesitates—fingertips mere millimeters from the sphere.

He feels a sense of dread—looming and weighty. It suffocates him—almost like a waking sleep paralysis.

It is unreasonable of course; the sphere looks no different from any of the other countless orbs he has previously seen. Maybe a touch darker perhaps—a shade of green akin to a tortoise’s shell—but a slight color variance is expected. Certainly, that had applied to all of the other ones—reds, the color of holly or women’s lipstick, to orbs verdant as seaweed and blues as pure as the waters of Crater Lake.

Some are bright as Las Vega’s hotel signs, and others are brighter still, like fireflies on a starless summer night.

There are multitudes of variations.

It shouldn’t be a problem, but Kiran hesitates still.

The leaves flutter gently, and one lands in his hair. That, as soft as it is, snaps him out of his daze.

He is the Summoner and tactician of Askr. He should not fear something as simple as this.

Closing the gap, he taps the sphere, and it explodes.

* * *

Perhaps “explode “ is a bit of a harsh word, but his vocabulary escapes him in this moment. The sound and sight of upheaving dust fills the clearing, and a loud crack—akin to thunder or a lightning strike—resounds. Behind him, he can hear the telltale sound of movement as his party scrambles to regain their composure.

He hears another bang behind him before a flash of light—most likely Deirdre’s magic by its draconian form—rushes pass him and towards the center of the stone platform. He feels a pair of hands lift him—most likely to move him back and to a safer location—before another blast resounds.

He still could not see anything significant. Both the assailant’s and Deirdre’s magic had kicked up quit a dust cloud.

Though, he could still hear. He doesn’t quite expect the voice—the assailant’s—to be familiar, and his blood runs cold at the words.

“I am the wings of despair. I am the breath of ruin. I am the fell dragon, Grima. Pay me the respect I am due, and I promise you a painless death.”

* * *

The dust settles, and they face a dragon—weightier than Mount Tai and expansive as the Andes.

Or rather, they face the mere tip of such a being. Only a portion of the reptilian snout had materialized, enough to produce the previous two blasts—now recognized as dragon’s fire. Even without seeing the entire beast, it is easy enough to discern, or at the very least, deduce, that the dragon’s full size is much larger than the likes of Nowi’s, Fae’s, or even the older Tiki’s draconic forms.

It would be a comical sight, the partially formed snout, if Kiran had not seen, felt really, the results of its flames. Around him, the embers—unnaturally ominous in their hue—flicker, licking at the trees and the present vegetation. Thankfully, the forest had not caught aflame—an advantage of the barren ground around the monument and of the forest’s natural humidity and muddiness. The forest would lose some of its drier leaf litter, a few of its smaller seedlings, and perhaps a few of its trees, but it is at the very least, better than the alternative, a full-scale wildfire. Alongside the flames, a few of the trees had fallen, shattered from the force of the explosions. Where each blast had hit, a crater had formed, pockmarking the earth.

In front of it stands Robin—or rather, Grima. It is much of the same appearance as Robin—dark coat, white undershirt, and buckled boots. Though, his eyes are different, an almost red-violet—a shade not unlike that of the Black Prince’s Ruby—compared to Robin’s more golden wheat brown.

In all honestly, the comparison is fairly apt. Kiran doesn’t doubt that destruction follows Grima wherever he (she? It? There is certainly Reflet to consider as well) goes. He is a blight, a curse, upon the land. That, the book had made clear—decaying carcasses rising to damn the living, hellfire blazing, and corpses upon corpses piled high as if to catch the attention of the Heavens.

It had been a picture of Hell.

Unquestionably, there is no doubt that their second group had heard the commotion. More than likely, they would split the group further—one to stay with the horses and a second to traverse further in. Anna had marked the trunks along their path and placed trail markers; they would easy to find. Even without that, the smoke would be an obvious indicator of their location.

(As often the case with hindsight, Kiran wishes that they had brought a flier with them. Whether it is Caeda, Michalis, or any one of the other dozens of fliers in their employment. It certainly does not have to be a Hero. Simply, anyone capable of flying overhead. Roy and the others would be quick to react, but, even with the trail markers the pre-cleared trail, it would take an hour, at their swiftest, to reach Kiran’s location. Forest terrain is difficult to navigate.

Though, he wonders if fliers would suffice; he could simply shoot them down. It isn’t a jab at their skill, but aim does not matter all too much when one’s weapon essentially amounted to a larger scale flamethrower.)

“Well?” Grima’s voice is self-assured, arrogant, and demanding. Honestly, it isn’t all too different from Robin’s normal voice, personal biases aside. The only difference between his and Robin’s is the lack of playfulness—a sort of quirk that made one believe in Robin’s integrity despite his rather…particular personality. Certainly, Robin could be mischievous, a bit harsh at times, but his playfulness is what laces his charm together, made his personality bearable.

He feels a hand on his shoulder, most likely Marth’s by the feel of his glove. It is a sign of reassurance—a signal that he would defend Kiran if need arises or if order given.

Kiran feels a surge of confidence at that. Perhaps foolish in the face of a devil, but that is one of Marth’s gifts—one of the traits that draws Kiran to him, in both literature and in Askr. It is the gift of charisma, one potent enough to move even the gods and drive men—such as the nameless knight—to fight for him.

Kiran rises and speaks. His body trembles—what sane man wouldn’t in his current situation?—but he speaks.

“I am Askr’s summoner and tactician. My name is Kiran, and I have summ—”

Grima, flippant, cuts him off with a wave of his hand.

“That isn’t what I asked, human. You must work on your hearing. Certainly, your kind here must have advanced far enough to develop basic comprehension?”

Condescending, utterly condescending. It is like speaking to Robin on one of his bad days.

(Though, Robin, thankfully, has less of those after Libra’s appearance. However, Kiran somewhat doubts that Libra would have the same effect on Grima as he would with his now nicer, less draconic counterpart.)

He continues, “Perhaps, another show of force is necessary? Perhaps blindness runs in your bloodline as well?”

The dragon besides him begins to materialize more, a warning. The beast is massive, reaching near the tops of the trees. Even with its current size, it still has not fully materialized.

“Your answer? I do not like to be kept waiting.”

It is a bit of a foolish thought considering the occasion, but Grima is just as chatty as Robin.

“N-no.”

“No?” Grima’s lips curl. “We can certainly fix that.”

There’s another windup from the dragon— breath drawn in and flames, Expiration, forming. It is a show of arrogance—force—just as promised. Kiran doesn’t doubt that Grima would kill them if given the chance, but he must try; he must depend on Breidablik.

(It isn’t that he underestimates Deirdre or Marth, but, like the fliers, Grima’s range is massive—especially in their current location. The trees encircle them, closing off the majority of escape routes and limiting their movements. If they chose to fight, it would be particularly terrible for their closer-ranged fighters like Marth. In the case of an unlikely escape, the forest is enormous—Gaia’s cosmos. They had rations of course, and the forest could provide essentials. However, that meant letting Grima roam free, a fairly poor outcome for Zenith.

Furthermore, Grima could simply choose to torch the entire forest; his flames are hot enough, especially with the foliage flammable forest floor.)

He isn’t all too fond of the idea of dying.

He has had similar encounters before with the more vitriolic Heroes—Berkut and his near homicidal rage against Alm, Ursula and her propensity for violence, and Valter and his general…everything—but could Breidablik affect gods? Certainly, one could argue that Grima is manmade, but a god is a god in his opinion.

Divine Naga’s radiance and Elfire’s blaze—courtesy of one of the soldiers—streak toward Grima, but it doesn’t do much. Grima sidesteps Deirdre’s magic easy enough; it isn’t the full extent of her magical abilities after all.

With their relatively close proximity to each other, full-scale magic would be a potential hazard to everyone else in their party—especially to Kiran. He couldn’t dodge after all; accompanying warriors to a battlefield did not necessarily mean he had their experience and abilities.

And on the Elfire, Grima merely bats it away. It is a good attempt, one that would cause the average opponent off-guard, but Grima—Robin—is not normal in the slightest.

He thinks of course; he must act. But, thinking and acting are entirely different actions. Bluster and adrenaline could only get so far before fear took over.

He is shaking, trembling like the leaves above. He wants to act or even simply attempt to flee, as many are inclined towards in the face of danger, but instead, his legs do not move. He is a wide-eyed deer in the face of headlights.

He feels a tap on his shoulder—Anna, face grim and Nóatún in hand.

“Summoner, use Breidablik. We can offer a distraction, but you must act. Though…if it fails, flee. You are the priority.”

Her voice lacks her normal flourishes, her accent vague and hazy like swamp fog—an effect of their current situation.

There isn’t much else to say before Anna charges. Certainly, Grima could have killed them already, but it is akin to a lazy cat playing with a canary—a sense of self-satisfaction and confidence.

Her swings are powerful yet precise, honed from decades of combat. He can see the others in the background—tomes open and weapons in arc.

Like a child’s safety blanket, Breidablik is still clenched tightly in his hand. He had not dropped it in the confusion. The explosion had not hurt him all too much. What fool would make a weapon’s purpose hurt its user after all? The fall caused by the sphere’s blast had hurt more.

He doesn’t want to flee; he isn’t a coward after all. However, it is hard, as responsibility often is.

But, he, at the very least, tries.

If asked, he would like to say he had been confident, assured of everything like Robin or Corrin or any of the others, but he isn’t. He wishes it could be something grand—some history-making speech like Churchill’s or pretty, fanciful words like Faulkner or Wilde.

When he speaks, it sounds like a child’s whimper, rough and uneven and weak.

But, he does, and it is a child’s words.

“S-stop!”

* * *

Thankfully, it works. There had been a tense few moments as Breidablik remained silent, before a pale light encompasses the relic.

The dragon dissipates, flames mere moments from release, and Grima is surrounded. There is a look of anger on his face, twisted in a way that is very much like Robin’s but not. It is akin to a forgery. The shape of the face and the turn of expression are the same, but the emotions are different. It is too raw, too open and honest.

Robin never quite got angry—the sort accompanied by shouts and thrown goods—only annoyed, as if his problems were beneath someone of his stature. In those moments, he seems farther away, colder, more of an aristocrat than an amnesiac tactician. It is the sort of condescension—an irritated mildness—one would expect from a highborn lord than from a man who preferred campfire charred bear meat to whole roast pig, apple and all.

In those moments, Robin rarely outright states what bothers him. It is another turn of phrase and more deflection. Honesty for him, in these types of situations, is an optional sort of virtue, only required when worse came to worst.

It is merely another one of his quirks—faults really—like his incessant finger tapping.

Though back to the matter at hand, he doubts that anyone, outside of perhaps Breidablik if that could be considered, heard him. The clash of steel and the crackle of fire and lightning had been blaring, loud like police sirens.

Behind him, he can hear the telltale sounds of footsteps, most likely the second group. His suspicions are confirmed when hears Roy’s voice.

Kiran feels a sense of relief—safety in numbers after all.

However, his greatest relief is at Breidablik. The relic ad responded to him, saved their lives really.

(He isn’t going to consider that the relic had caused, by technicality, their situation just yet.)

Moreover, he is glad to be alive.

* * *

They set up camp a few hours later, far away from both the forest and the Askr-Embla border. Overhead, a river of stars flows, glimmering like beach glass and trailing off to distant shores.

“Sorry for not explaining sooner, but you can pretty much understand why I didn’t, right? Grima isn’t exactly the most amicable person around.”

They are in Anna’s tent. Her tent, as the commander’s temporary abode, is a bit larger, more suited for conversation. Though, it is rather sparsely decorated compared to some of their other expeditions, a side effect of their smaller party.

Kiran nods, although he isn’t particularly happy about her decision. Grima isn’t particularly happy about it either, but Kiran doesn’t really want to include his opinions in this discussion.

She continues, “The Shepherds, as well as the Valentians, would have objected. They _will_ object as soon as we arrive home, but it’s easier to convince people after the fact has happened than before. That’s common sense you know?”

The last part is airier, an obvious attempt at livening the situation. Though, Kiran isn’t quite satisfied.

“We could have died. You didn’t know if Breidablik would work.”

“We could have,” she agrees, “but we didn’t, and Breidablik did. ”

Kiran is about to question her further, but she interrupts.

“I understand your concerns, but our enemies are getting stronger and bolder. Alongside Veronica, we have other kingdoms, city-states, a plethora of rivaling nations to worry about. While Embla is our main concern, we have other enemies, seen or otherwise.”

Kiran still isn’t quite convinced.

“Why do we need Grima specifically? Wouldn’t his presence cause Askr’s neighbors to act? They wouldn’t simply let a god roam about. Furthermore, couldn’t we have summoned a different god? Surely Grima wasn’t the only god you could think of.”

There are multitudes of other gods or god-like beings in the stories he has read. Naga, Idunn, Anankos. The list simply went on. Certainly not all of them, such as Loptyr and Fomortiis , are good choices, but could Grima be considered any better?

“He wasn’t, but he was the only one I could find on short notice.”

That doesn’t particularly reassure Kiran.

“What do you mean by that? Shouldn’t you, as commander, not risk yourself on a chance like this? There are so many different factors that could have gone wrong, and some of them _have_ gone wrong.”

The forest clearing could attest to that.

Anna is patient, not particularly perturbed by Kiran’s questions.

“I went through Askr’s library for months, borrowed a few from the local one as well. There simply wasn’t anyone else we could _reasonably_ find in the time we have.”

She sighs.

“As I’ve said before, Askr has her enemies, and we simply don’t have enough time to consider every single detail before we move. Remember what I said when you first began summoning, about the monuments?”

Kiran nods. He remembers quite well. One wouldn’t forget anything about an occasion such as that.

“Then you remember what I said about the calibrations, not every Hero—I use that in the loosest sense of the word—can be summoned at every monument. We have to consider the position of the stars, the monuments own affinities, the time of the year, and so forth. Furthermore, not every monument is in allied territory; they’re located all over Zenith, including in areas like Embla and Múspell. We can’t simply invade other nations for a reason like that; it would cause a war. Grima’s simply the only one with an affiliated monument in Askr—that I could locate anyway.”

She smiles wryly before continuing, “And as you said, I’m the commander. I do need to consider risks, but also, I _need_ to take them. That’s part of what commander is about. I can’t simply sit around and wait until everything is in place. We’d be invaded by then. Certainly, every nation in Zenith knows we have a summoner now. We’ve been pushing back Embla’s attacks for close to a year now.”

Kiran doesn’t quite understand entirely what she meant by that. Surely, Askr could keep its secrets better?

He doesn’t need to ask; Anna explains anyway, already anticipating a motley of questions.

“I told you before; we have moles in Askr. We can’t screen every single person that crosses our borders either. Furthermore, not every ruler is as difficult as Empress Veronica; there are traitors in our nation as well. You notice how I haven’t introduced you to the ruling king and queen yet, right? Or brought you to the capital? The order doesn’t have as strong of a hold there as we do at base. There are numerous people there willing to sell information, from servant girl to a nobleman. If they saw you with Breidablik, they’d certainly try and sell that tidbit for some coin or perhaps a small piece of land.”

She pauses before continuing, “’Course, I’m not foolish enough to think that there are no spies in our abode, but it’s certainly easier to weed them out there. We have quite a few loyalists there as well as our own spies. Matthew and now Saizo and Peri are quite good at picking them out and gleaning a bit of information.”

Kiran doesn’t quite like the glint in Anna’s eyes then, but this is one of the few questions he is unwilling to push on.

“Askr is considered one of the more _hypothetically_ dangerous nations in Zenith. Do you know why?”

Kiran shakes his head. He doesn’t quite understand where Anna is going with this.

“Our royal family is capable of opening portals to other worlds, ergo access to escape routes and other armies. We can’t necessarily control them like Embla can, but the mere presence of a portal can cause massive shifts in the environment and political sphere, not every gateway leads to an ideal world after all. Furthermore, Imagine, a ubiquitous vulnerability, one that no one—outside of Embla—can close. Now consider yourself and what you bring to our nation. You can see where I’m going with this, right?”

A budding sense of realization envelopes Kiran. Of course, for Anna, it is merely a hypothetical question, one used effect. She begins to explain anyway, not waiting for Kiran’s reply.

“ _You_ take the chance out of the equation. While luck is a part of warfare, so is _control_ —where we engage, our deployments, and so forth. We can’t always control everything, such as in the case of ambushes, but when we can, we _must_. The one who controls the flow of the battlefield and the flow of the conflict wins. As a side note, that’s also why propaganda and camaraderie are so important; a weak resolve means weak soldiers, cowards willing to flee at the slightest hint of trouble. Strength in prowess or numbers means nothing if they cannot follow orders.”

She takes a breath before continuing, “Of course, you can’t just summon anywhere. Unlike the nobles, you require a monument and orbs alongside Breidablik of course. But the Heroes you summon, they obey you. That’s a worthwhile trade in my opinion. As a result, you are considered a threat by every other nation in Zenith, even among our allies. They may not show their disdain, but it exists. Trust me. They wouldn’t hesitate to get rid of you if they were certain they could make it look like an accident—perhaps a stray arrow or a lucky bandit.”

Kiran feels a sense of nervousness at her words as any sane person would. Though, not everything adds up.

“You said that monuments are located all over Zenith. Couldn’t they simply destroy them then if they’re so worried? And you haven’t answered my question about Grima yet. Why would that not tip them off? His abilities aren’t exactly inconspicuous.”

Anna hums before replying, “They have tried before, and the nation that succeeded in destroying one ended up wiped off the face of the continent. It’s bad luck to harm the relics of the gods, ya know? Nowadays, most people don’t want to risk that. Additionally, they’re, despite appearances, quite hard to dent even with magic.”

“And Grima?”

He wouldn’t let her sidestep that particular detail.

“He looks like Robin.”

Her answer leaves him in disbelief. It’s childish and simple. Thankfully, Anna explains further.

“We aren’t going to deploy him every battle. Think of him as a secret weapon—a last resort—of sorts. As of now, as long as he doesn’t materialize that dragon again, he’s basically a meaner Robin. Give him a tome and tell him to tone down the death and despair, and he’d make a good doppelgänger.”

She claps him on the back, and Kiran stumbles forward slightly. It hadn’t been a hard clap; he had been merely unready for it.

“Besides, it wasn’t like I knew nothing about Breidablik; the books say it can control any individual it summons. But, I do have to cover my bases, ya know? If it had failed—which it hadn’t—Dvalinn would have left alongside you; he was always the closest in distance to you. He may not look it—mage robes and all—but he’s a good woodsman. We were in the same unit back when I was a cadet.”

He doesn’t stumble this time when she claps his back, a bit harder than her previous one. Perhaps she had been annoyed by his questions.

“If worse came to worst, he would have warped you out to the second group. I gave him the staff before we left base.”

Thankfully, she doesn’t clap his back again when she speaks this time.

“Though”—she trails off—“I do want you to talk to him more, Grima I mean. Try to make friends with him. I’d ask someone else, but you’re the one with Breidablik, ergo a safety net.”

Kiran feels a sense of disbelief at that, and it shows in his objection. Had she already forgotten what he tried to do to them?

However, Anna remains unperturbed despite his reaction.

“Just try. Making friends isn’t as bad as it seems.”

Perhaps, that applies to normal people, but, in Kiran’s opinion, it shouldn’t apply to someone who had caused the death of millions and an apocalyptic horror that would not be out of place in Revelations.

Though, he couldn’t voice his complaints before Anna shoos him out of her tent.

The commander is a stubborn woman.

* * *

“So…how are you feeling? Your summoning was quite…spectacular.”

His voice is awkward even to his ears, and he inwardly cringes. After his conversation with Anna, he had headed straight towards his own tent to mope.

He had thought about defying Anna’s orders of course. What madman would consider consorting with the Fell Dragon? But, he also knows Anna. If he defied her orders, she would somehow find a way to instate her command anyway—most likely with stricter conditions.

Certainly, Alfonse is feeling her wrath. He doesn’t quite understand how Anna had found out. According to Alfonse, he had replaced her reports to the exact angle and dusted for his fingerprints. Kiran hadn’t tattled either so how had she found out?

Whatever her reason or information source, Alfonse is currently offline for most his duties, including training the recruits. That particular duty—as unfortunate as it is for the budding swordsmen—had been passed to Navarre and Joshua, at least until the week was over or Anna’s wrath faded.

(She didn’t call it that, but the choice of Navarre and Joshua reminds him of the “good cop bad cop” routine. Certainly, their personalities clash enough for that. Though, he isn’t quite sure who played which role in this scenario.)

The most Anna would allow him to do is stable duty, and not the particularly meaningful portions either. Specifically, Alfonse had been relegated to apple duty, not feeding the horses—that would strain his muscles—but coring and slicing the apples for the entirety of the Order’s horse herds. Alfonse isn’t particularly happy about it of course, but the ostler is.

Though back to the current subject matter, his words are awfully awkward, and Grima notices.

“Did that red-haired wench put you up to this?”

There is the obvious sneer in his voice, as expected.

“N-no! I’m doing this because I want to get to know you. We got off on the wrong foot, you know? And I like to get to know the Heroes I summon.”

It isn’t a complete lie; he certainly did enjoy learning about his summoned companions, but Grima almost completely terrifies him. Breidablik eases some of his fears of course, but human nature is not entirely rational.

There’s another wordless sneer as Grima pulls the reins of Alsviðr, a particularly sturdy stallion, and rushes forward towards the front of their formation and away from him. It had been difficult to find a horse willing to take Grima on its back, especially with their limited selection. Even with the lack of blackened flames, his presence is enough to stir the horses into frenzy. It is an instinctual reaction to an apex predator, driven by an understanding of their differences.

Even Árvakr, despite her rather laidback manner, had stirred, rearing her front legs.

Only Alsviðr had remained still or rather, he had been the only one to merely tremble.

They could have simply made Grima walk, but that would extend their trip into weeks. Grima could have flown of course, but that isn’t particularly discreet either. Thus, they ended up in their current situation, with all of the horses terrified or stiff, their canters not as smooth as when they began their journey.

Though, Kiran, despite his annoyance and fear, couldn’t help but think, “It must be lonely to have even the animals turn from you.”

As he reaches the front of the formation and pass Anna, Grima is a solitary figure, his overcoat dark against Alsviðr’s pure white coat.

* * *

As predicted, the Shepherds—whether from Reflet’s or Robin’s bunch—do not react favorably. There’s arguments abound, particularly from Sully and Lucina. Sully had never been someone who held her tongue, and Lucina’s reasons are obvious for everyone who has spent a modicum of time in her presence.

The Valentians aren’t quite happy about it either, having experienced the Thabes Labyrinth.

Anna settles it of course, silver-tongued and amicable as always. They aren’t happy naturally, but at the very least, they have avoided a full-on mutiny. Kiran can feel both Reflet’s and Robin’s disapproval as he walks pass them and towards his sleeping quarters.

It is strange really, how different they are. Reflet’s gaze is open, defiant and full of anger. It is the sort of righteous passion one expected someone who has experienced injustice. It is the sort of anger tinged with fear, not for herself but for everyone else around her. Certainly, one could expect body theft to go under that category of injustice, but her anger is the sort that primarily caters to others, fueled by fear for their safety.

She is the type to directly face her transgressors rather than hide behind a coy smile.

In comparison, Robin’s fury is colder, akin to the plains of Arbuda or Lake Cocytus. It is the sort one hid behind a smile, fingers crossed behind their back as they lied. Though, Kiran couldn’t quite call it anger, not fully. His eyes are cold of course, but it conveys annoyance—disdain even—like the sort one held when dealing with an unruly mutt or a particularly obnoxious gnat. It isn’t like the wild emotion of his counterpart.

His eyes are frost, more fit for a land of ice than the desert of his birth.

(Though, Kiran can tell that Robin is bothered. He has drawn close to Libra, most likely in an attempt to shield him in case harm came about.)

Because of their shared anger, Kiran expects his next few lessons to be quite a bit tougher. Though as tacticians, they would eventually understand Grima’s worth, personal feelings put aside. Their titles as tactical geniuses attest to that; they would not simply throw away a valuable resource.

Though, Kiran could not quite look at Virion as he passes. It isn’t anger that he feels from him, but merely, disappointment.

It stings like a wasp, quick and sharp and lasting.

And throughout it all, Grima smiles, smug and self-satisfied. Even if he couldn’t physically slaughter them all, emotional warfare works just as well for him.

Simply, that is the sort of person he is.

* * *

“You knew who I was going to summon.”

His tone is accusatory, tinted with a bit of anger.

Gunnthrá’s smile is serene, pale pink unblemished and collected despite her guest’s words. It is their third meeting and not much has changed about her and her study. Like the sculptures that stood outside her room, she seemed frozen in eternity—a prisoner of time and its whim. Her garments have not changed and neither has her perpetual smile.

It is honestly quite unnerving, but Kiran wouldn’t voice that particular opinion.

“Yes”—she cocks her head inquisitively, not unlike the manner of a cat—“as I stated last time. I am a student of divination.”

Why didn’t you tell me then? I thought you wanted my cooperation? Don’t you think that an important piece of information like that would have cemented my trust?”

His voice is loud in the stillness of the room, but at the moment, he couldn’t find himself in the mood to care for his discourtesy.

If Anna hadn’t told him, Gunnthrá certainly could have. Furthermore, Gunnthrá, unlike Anna, had seen the entirely of the forest’s events; she had not acted on chance like Anna.

“I do, but as I said before, all roads eventually lead to the same place, though not all of them are equal. If I had told you, would you have not attempted to diverge the path?”

She tilts her head once more.

“Yes! I would have! But wouldn’t you? Certainly, you saw what Grima did?”

She nods, “I did, and I would. Thus, that is why I didn’t tell you.”

Kiran is frustrated. Who wouldn’t be with these sorts of contradictory, wishy-washy answers?

“How can I trust you then? You can’t even tell me something that could have saved my life.”

“But you are not dead.”

Her tone holds a hint of bewilderment. It is a bit too human on her, fracturing the façade of porcelain that she crafted since his arrival. Though, could he say that if this was only third meeting? A connection formed through a dream for that matter. Could he truly say this was who Gunnthrá was? He doesn’t know her, not truly.

Perhaps she is always like this, the archetypical clairvoyant. He only has these meetings and his own suspicions to use after all.

Though, she does compose herself rather quickly, returning to a near-perfect impression of one of his mother’s dolls.

“But, I could have been”—he stresses the last portion—“you saw how Grima tried to torch everything. If I had been just a bit slower, he would have succeeded.”

“And you weren’t. You were just quick enough. I would have warned you if death was in your future.”

Even Tiresias would find that statement ominous.

His frustration mounts at that, but before he could reply, she speaks once more.

“I am a prophet, but my visions are not set in stone. If I had told you, would you have felt confidence when the time came or would you have fled or perhaps, stilled, frozen as the lakes often are in my homeland? Or perhaps you would have argued with your commander and changed the course of our world radically? Time is not but a thread among many.”

Kiran opens his mouth to answer, but he finds that no answer would come. He would like to say that he would have acted the same, that he would have activated Breidablik, but he cannot. It would be a lie in all sense of the word.

It is an easy enough matter to look upon the past with certainty and to conjure up various possibilities and another entirely to change it. There are too many factors to consider.

That is one of the few traits shared between the past and future—the uncertainty of past’s what-ifs and the dubiety of future’s choices. It is easy enough to look towards the past and the future and wonder but harder still to look around at the present.

She continues, unperturbed, “I had not called you here to argue. Rather, I had called on you for a favor.”

“A favor?” The disbelief is obvious in his tone. Certainly, she didn’t expect one after her bizarrely unclear answers.

“Yes, a favor,” she responds. Whether Gunnthrá had simply ignored his tone or she had truly did not notice, Kiran isn’t quite sure.

“I need you to visit Gnótthæð in roughly two months’ time; it is urgent. You will understand when and why when the moment comes.”

“And if I refuse?” He sounds like a child, but willful ignorance had never been a state he had been fond of.

“You must”—her voice is forceful, another fracture in the façade of the doll—“it is of utmost importance for your kingdom and mine.”

Kiran does not quite feel like arguing with Gunnthrá on this matter. If she had not budged on her previous statements, why would this one be any different? Certainly, he isn’t all too fond of the implications of her words, but from all of his current knowledge of her, she would most likely not be willing to rephrase her statement into something more coherent for the average person.

“Can you at least give me a hint on why it’s important?”

It is a bit snide in nature—meant more as a jab than as an actual question.

Though surprisingly, she does.

“You will find an ally there.”

It is simple, still somewhat vague, but much better than her previous answers.

She continues, “I cannot say any more, but I hope this reassures you somewhat.”

There are many scenarios that run through his mind, not all of them favorable. It could be the truth, or it could be a lie, a trap set. Gunnthrá had not lied so far—perhaps hidden the truth but never a lie. However, that does not necessarily mean she is trustworthy. Her secretiveness casts doubt on her reliability.

He wants to question her more, as foolish as it is with her track record for clarity, but she interrupts.

“I must bid you farewell now. We did not speak as much on certain matters as I would like, but I hope you understand. Our time together is limited, confined to dreams and ended when the duties of the waking world call.”

With that, the study fades, scenery rippling like melting ice.

* * *

He speaks to Alfonse on the matter of course.

He had considered Anna first of course, but she had been busy, more so than normal. Besides, anything he said to Alfonse would most likely be shipped to her as a report. There are certain matters that Alfonse kept secret (or attempted to keep secret), such as his failed attempt to defy Anna’s work embargo, but on others, he is meticulous.

They’re in the stables, sitting on wooden stools provided by the ostler. To the left side of Alfonse’s stool is a wicker basket, filled to the brim with apples. Two buckets are in front of him, one filled with peels and cores and the other with apple slices.

“You heard from Gunnthrá again?” Alfonse’s hands are ungloved as he peels each fruit with a knife, red ribbon perfectly cut and unbroken. He drops the peel into the half full bucket before slicing the apple, popping each wedge into the corresponding bucket.

Kiran nods.

“She wants us to go to Gnótthæð”—his pronunciation is horrendous, but Alfonse seems to understand or at the very least, he doesn’t comment—"in two months. I’m not sure when, but she said we’d know, and that we’d get an ally out of it.”

“Did she specify who?”

Alfonse offers Kiran a particularly large wedge, and he takes it with thanks. They aren’t particularly worried about eavesdroppers; Alfonse had checked the perimeters before they had begun.

“No, she only said it would be an ally.”

Kiran goes on to elaborate about his encounter. He takes time to mention Anna’s coin as well; he hadn’t thrown it away. Rather, he had placed it near him as Anna had specified. Meeting once with the coin is coincidence, twice is certainty. At the very least, it would require a rather powerful spirit to trespass.

(Alfonse doesn’t believe it of course. To him, it is a load of nonsense, baloney fed to gullible children, but Kiran wants to mention it at the very least, to cover his bases as they saying goes. Though, he would include it in his inevitable report; it’s simply in his nature to do so.

Anna knows of his doubts naturally. She hadn’t minded all too much; she had simply called him a “city boy” in return.)

Alfonse nods along, his hands never stopping. The bucket of peels and cores fills rather quickly.

When he finishes, there is a silence before Alfonse speaks.

“The Nifl royal family—or the girls rather—are known for their prophetic dreams. It is unsurprising that Gunnthrá knew about Grima. Though…”

Alfonse frowns.

“I’m not quite happy about Nifl, or Gunnthrá rather, knowing the Order’s plans.”

He inches his knife across the apple, red peel bouncing with each movement. It is a marvel really, every peel is perfectly cut, not too deep as to lose the inside and not too shallow as to leave behind red. It speaks to hours of practice.

“Can we stop her abilities somehow then?”

Alfonse shakes his head.

“Askr isn’t a kingdom known for its magic. Alongside our abilities to open gateways, we’re actually known for our messenger birds, like Feh, and our swordsmen.”

He shakes his knife over the bucket, dropping the peel.

“The next time you see her, question her.”

Alfonse’s words are a bit of surprise for Kiran. He had expected him to suggest silence when meeting with Gunnthrá. Alfonse is a cautious person after all, and Gunnthrá couldn’t quite see everything through her dreams.

Her one moment of confusion during their previous conversation suggests that.

Thankfully, he explains, “Gunnthrá is rather mysterious, even for a Nifl royal. Even as a child, I hadn’t learned much about her when we visited for negotiations. She had abdicated the throne at that point, and moved into the temple.”

That catches Kiran’s attention.

“Abdicated? I thought Nifl had a crown prince?”

The monarchies Kiran knows of often passed the crown down through one line, not two.

“They do—Hríd is his name—but normally, their crown passes to the females of the line; it is matrilineal.”

That still didn’t quite clear up Kiran’s confusion.

“I thought there were two other sisters? Then why didn’t they take precedence over Hríd?”

Alfonse shrugs. “I do not know the details of it. I only know of the decision. Though, I do understand that there had been an uproar over Hríd’s naming as heir apparent rather than heir presumptive. Perhaps you can ask Gunnthrá the next time you see her. She would know the particulars of the situation.”

Alfonse pops an apple slice into his mouth and chews. The apples—an import from the southern nations—are sweet. While the southern nations are in their harvest season, Askr’s apple season had long passed. Now, if one held a taste for Askrian apples, one would have to settle for the dried variety or for the more expensive option of honeyed preserves.

Alfonse hands him another wedge, and Kiran accepts.

Even if he couldn’t have Askrian apples, the southern ones are just as sweet.

* * *

Grima rebukes another one of his attempts at friendship, and Kiran is frustrated. The fear still exists of course, but like a childhood fear of dogs, exposure eases it.

Neither Robin nor Reflet are willing to give advice on the matter either. He hadn’t expected anything substantial, but their “advice,” if it could be called as such, had been worse than even his lowest expectations.

(He had almost asked Lucina about it but thought better. Her mood these days are particularly sour with Grima around.)

Robin had merely glowered at him, eyes narrowed. Afterwards, he had assigned more reading—three chapters from _Foundations of the Frontline_ , eighty pages from _Societies of the South_ , and five sections of _The Art of the Wild Hunt_. It is petty, but Kiran would not voice that thought; he certainly didn’t want to read _Deceptions of the Bedchambers_ as well.

It reminds him a bit of university in all honestly. It is strange how that pops into his mind at this moment after years of obscurity, but it does.

(Despite its name, it isn’t as risqué or interesting as one would think. It merely covered, in the driest terms possible, the political machinations among concubines, consorts, and those sorts of folks. Kiran doesn’t quite understand how it would help with his tactician training, but Robin had been insistent. He understands its uses of course—to understand people and their motivations—but Kiran doubts he would be interacting with those types all too much.)

Robin would cool down eventually, but for now, it is a rough sort of time. Thankfully, the man had been merciful; he had given a time limit of five days rather than a singular one.

His female counterpart is, gratefully, much more reasonable, though her words are a bit strange.

There is anger in her eyes as she speaks, but at the very least, she isn’t as petty as her counterpart.

“This Grima…he is much more playful and vindictive than mine.”

At the sight of his expression, she clarifies, "Do not misunderstand; I did not know her all too well outside of our battles, but her manner of speech is much different…more composed than this one. Regal, perhaps? From that, I would assume her inclinations, outside of malice, would be rather dissimilar.”

She tilts her head, pigtails bobbing with her motions.

“I think you could compare them to Robin and myself? Outside of our obvious gender differences, we hold a startling number of dissimilarities. Hypothetically, we shouldn’t be all too different outside of a few changes if we hold the same amnesiac tendencies—no memories to influence our actions after all—but as you can see…we’re quite different to understate it.”

Kiran nods at that.

She hums. “How should I say it? I mean no offense to him, but he can be rather…abrasive. It almost makes me think we have fundamentally different cores, but that couldn’t be it, could it? I asked both his Libra and Virion on the matter, and they both confirmed that he is a Shepherd and Chrom’s tactician.”

“How does that confirm anything?” Kiran is a bit curious of Reflet’s thought process; it seems a bit eccentric, like she is three steps ahead while he is still at the starting line.

“It doesn’t,” she explains, “but it confirms his character. Chrom would not allow an ethically bankrupt degenerate into his company. Perhaps somewhat morally grey, but not someone entirely bereft of compassion. What I mean by fundamentally different core is not the amnesia nor even the field we were both presumably found in, but allegiances and beliefs—the basis of a person’s existence. Furthermore, I trust in the clarity of Libra’s decisions; he would not keep the company of someone he does not respect.”

“Oh.” That made a bit more sense.

Reflet is contemplative as she speaks, “I guess it is another debate for nature versus nurture.”

Kiran nods, letting the silence soak, like loose leaf tea leaves, after she finishes. How should he say it? It is his original intention after all.

Her gaze on him is expectant; he hadn’t left yet after all.

Eventually, he decides to just say it; there is no real inoffensive way to ask.

“Do you have any ideas on what he would like? Or perhaps what you would like?”

It is a bit of an insensitive question, considering Reflet’s and Robin’s circumstances, but there isn’t much else he can do. He’s almost out of ideas.

He had tried to offer bear meat, and Grima had grimaced at that. He had attempted to invite him to his cooking lessons with Caeda (with her permission of course), and he had refused. He declines the tea. He declines the alcohol—a particularly expensive brandy smuggled from Embla. He declines everything, from gifts to food to simple invitations.

Reflet doesn’t immediately expel him from the room for his question which, in Kiran’s opinion, is a fairly good sign. Though, he does notice her eyes darkening further.

She is polite enough to answer, however.

“I am not quite sure. I do not normally think of gifts for mass murdering body thieves.”

Kiran winces a bit at her sarcasm, but at the very least, Reflet continues.

“Perhaps, a meal together? While I understand that he hasn’t accepted any of your invitations, a home-cooked meal is something I personally enjoy.”

Her lack of further sarcasm is appreciated. Kiran already has a hard-enough time already.

Though, Kiran has to shake his head at that.

“I haven’t seen Grima eat since he’s arrived. I’m not even sure if he needs to.”

“Hmm, then perhaps a book? It does not have to be a tactical tome or anything of that sort; it could simply be a fictional tale. I doubt Grima knows much about those, even with Robin’s memories. He destroyed everything after all, and a tale is always better read or heard than evoked from memory.”

Oh, that’s a good idea. He had worried and overthought and forgot his own specialty.

She continues, “And you are a storyteller, are you not? Perhaps a tale from your world would do, especially if you are worried about recounting a story he has already heard.”

Kiran nods, appreciative of her help.

After a few more moments of chatter, Kiran bids her a farewell.

* * *

He doesn’t meet with Grima next. While he did have to find him eventually—before the day ticked over—Kiran would like to put it off as long as possible.

(Perhaps meeting Grima in the dark of Askr Castle’s hallways isn’t the best of ideas. Certainly, Grima could attempt to stab him. Even with Breidablik’s protection, that is a worry. But, momentary comfort is far more important to Kiran at the moment. That is a problem that future Kiran could deal with.

Though, to Kiran, Grima does not seem to be the sort try something as subdued as that; he is the sort to do something with flair. From Reflet’s description, that sort of behavior would hypothetically belong to his female counterpart. Instead, Grima appears to be the sort that would enjoy a public execution or twenty.

It is a bit morbid, as invasive thoughts often are, but Kiran thinks Grima would have enjoyed the French Revolution—liberté, égalité, fraternité and all.)

Instead, he meets with Lucius. Today, their scenery is different—one of the training fields. Under normal circumstances, he would not be here. Work—whether it was errands, filing reports, or simply reading his tactician assignments—often took precedence during this time.

Sitting upon a maple bench, they watch Raven spar with Ryoma—Basilikos and Raijinto in full swing. Safely away from the center of the battle and to the sidelines, soldiers sit, watching the spar.

That is the point of it after all. While Raven and Ryoma undoubtedly enjoyed the chance to brawl, the primary purpose of the spar is to allow the soldiers to watch two experienced combatants fight—to analyze their movements and perhaps incorporate it.

Of course, no one expects them to become experts. It would be foolish to expect soldiers, no matter how experienced, to learn a full combat style just through a few battles—ones that they did not participate in for that matter.

It is simply a way for them to become aware of common maneuvers without the danger of a real battlefield.

Raven and Ryoma are rather evenly matched, neither really pushing the other back. Both sport a few bruises and a few superficial cuts, nothing truly debilitating.

Ryoma’s footwork is agile, and his grip is steady despite the rather quick strikes with Raijinto. While swift and rather numerous compared to Raven’s, each swing held a sense of purpose to it. It is not the wild swings of an amateur hoping to compensate skill with number, but rather, it is the cumulation of years of combat experience and practice.

A few stray bolts of Raijinto’s electricity streak across the field, controlled as to not hit a stray bystander.

It, Ryoma’s skill, is rather marvelous to watch in all honesty.

This is not to say that Raven is lackluster in comparison. Rather, his style is comparatively subdued, lacking in the flashiness that Ryoma’s lightning provides.

Basilikos could not be swung with abandon, not because of a lack of strength—Raven held that in excess—but because of its size, its material, and its shape. Against an opponent like Ryoma, a poorly thought out swing could mean another wound or electrocution. Raijinto’s size and electrical abilities meant blocking was out of the question; Basilikos, despite its fine craftsmanship, cannot prevent an electrical surge like Siegfried could.

(Of course, Ryoma isn’t a cruel enough man to fatally wound someone in a friendly spar, but he isn’t one to hold back against an opponent on equal footing either.)

Raven’s footwork is rather admirable, showing a keen awareness of both the environment and his opponent and his years as a mercenary. Even with Ryoma’s pressure, Raven does not misstep; he does not step into one the arcs of electricity covering the field.

It is rather admirable really.

Kiran wishes he could analyze better, but he does not have the combat experience for it. Of course, he notices the superficial details, but he cannot understand the finer details. Raven and Ryoma’s movements are rather swift for his inexperienced eyes as well.

While he had frequented many battlefields in his time with the Order of Heroes, he had never really been in the thick of it; he had never been truly in the fray. He had always been stationed in an area nearby or overlooking the battleground. As a tactician and noncombatant, he is both the weakest piece on the chessboard and the strongest.

(Sharena had given him a knife, a hunting dagger to be precise, and its sheath as a gift after the fiasco with Veronica. A cinquedea had been too long in her opinion, and a misericorde too morbid.

“You never want to be on that particular duty, summoner”—she had shuddered—“a hunting knife suits you, I think. It’ll be decent protection, and you’ll have something to use when we hunt game.”

Afterwards, she had introduced Matthew as his new teacher, a fairly sensible decision in all honestly. He isn’t all too fond of the idea of losing fingers due to a careless mistake. It would be embarrassing for both him and the hypothetical assassin.)

It is a bit of a shame really, but Kiran isn’t a fighter.

* * *

Walking together and back to the infirmary, Lucius is particularly chatty. He speaks on herbs and tonics and balms—he had learned a Hoshidan recipe for treating joint ache from Sakura—and on the daily happenings of the castle during Kiran’s absence.

Four days isn’t all too long of a time, but it leaves more subjects to cover in comparison to their daily chats.

(Apparently, Laslow had almost fallen into a well while flirting with a girl from one of the nearby towns. He had leaned too far forward, and the well—stone slick and bottom filled from a recent rain—had almost claimed a victim. It had been mere luck that Eliwood had been close enough nearby to pull him out. Though, Laslow had obtained a rather large bump on his head for his mischief.)

Perhaps, their chosen topics of conversation aren’t all too interesting, but Kiran does not mind all too much. For him, it is merely enough to hear Lucius speak; no matter the subject, he would listen. There is simply a certain sweetness to his voice, lovely like summer’s first peach.

(There is a particular coil of disgust in the pit of his stomach—directed only at himself and deserving only of himself. It is the sort of disgust one would feel at biting into a mealy apple and into a worm. While the texture itself would be a disappointment, the larva is simply revolting.)

“Lucina has been particularly sullen since Grima’s arrival. The training dummies often have to be repaired after one of her visits.”

Kiran nods at that. It isn’t particularly surprising information considering how vocal she had been when they had returned from their trip.

“I cannot say that I disagree with her assessment, but I trust you to make the best decision, Kiran.”

Kiran had been ready to agree with Lucius’s words—certainly, he hadn’t known of Anna’s plans—but the last section of his statement surprises him.

At Kiran’s expression, Lucius gives a light laugh, simply amused rather than anything truly malicious.

“You have not dismissed Grima. I understand you have obligations to the Order and to the commander, but Breidablik is _yours_. You have the final say in the decision.”

That certainly made sense.

They reach the door of the infirmary, though Lucius does not open the door.

Lucius turns slightly to face Kiran. His eyes are uncharacteristically solemn and serious. It startles Kiran somewhat.

“Though…I do hope you will be cautious. Even if you see something meaningful in him, it is not worth it if you are injured. People—no matter if they are good or evil—are rather good at causing harm.”

There are a few moment of silence before Lucius speaks again.

“Pardon…I did not mean to make you uncomfortable nor do I mean to question your judgement, but I merely”—there is a pause then as if Lucius could not find the right words—"You are someone dear to me.”

Kiran notices the change in direction, but he does not comment on it. He understands the difficulty of expressing one’s self. Certainly, he himself found the written word easier than oration.

No matter, Lucius’s words had warmed his heart, like freshly prepared peppermint tea on a drizzly autumn evening.

He follows Lucius into the infirmary, forgetful of his earlier worries as one often is in times of bliss.

The problem of Grima could certainly wait for a few more hours.

* * *

“Oh, you wish to offer a story this time?”

Surprisingly, Kiran had found Grima in the library. More specifically, he had found the man (could he be called that?) near one of the shelves—historical fiction to be exact. He had just slipped a book back into its slot when Kiran had arrived.

(Kiran makes note of it. Perhaps it is foolhardy, but he is rather curious of Grima’s reading material. He had chosen something as mundane as historical fiction after all. He can’t quite see the title of it, not without making his interest obvious, but he notes the location for later. Perhaps he would check later once Grima left.)

There is a pause of silence before Grima speaks again.

“Well? Out with it. I don’t have all day.”

That is a bit of surprise. Even if he had offered, he hadn’t expected Grima to actually accept. He certainly hadn’t accepted any of his other attempts at friendship.

Kiran hadn’t quite planned this far in all honesty, and he fumbles for a tale.

What would suffice? Roland and his paladins? Sun Wukong, Pigsy, and Sandy? The Six Swans?

He doesn’t have much more time to decide. Grima had already pulled one of the nearby chairs over. His expression is impatient—ruffled white hair framing a heart-shaped face and long lashes fluttering over narrowed eyes and scowl affixed.

It would be a picture of aristocratic arrogance if Grima hadn’t chosen one of the most obnoxiously juvenile ways to sit—chair backwards, forearms upon the top rail, and chin resting upon his arms. It is something one would expect from a teenager and not a being millennia old.

He cycle story to story—myth to fiction to religion to history—in his mind, finding something wrong with each occasion. Some tales like Scheherazade’s are too long and others too short, as with “The Big Trip Up Yonder.” Furthermore, the context—the frame—and thus, the impact, would be lost to Grima. He didn’t think the man would be interested in an explanation every other sentence.

Kiran’s nervousness increases alongside Grima’s impatience.

_Tartuffe_? Too steeped in cultural context. Amaterasu and her cave? Too short. The _Nibelungenlied_? Kiran doesn’t quite think Grima would enjoy a story with dragon slaying.

He discards story after story until a memory sparks—an old fairy tale his father often told when he was younger, still toddling but grown enough to digest the contents of his words.

It had been one of his father’s favorites, a tale immortalized in the volume upon the old mantel. Even now Kiran remembers it clearly. The volume had been fine for its age—cream colored vellum and fore-edge painted golden. While the fore-edge’s image had faded, the book had retained an almost-nostalgic charm.

Kiran remembers when his father had flipped through the pages with him—a girl smiling radiant, flame held in hand, a woman cloaked in snow and scepter held aloft, and so forth. There had been a set of illustrations for each fairy tale. Whenever his mother had been too tired for the night, his father would take her place as storyteller. His voice had been gruff, not due to irritation but because of natural inclination. It had been a silly sort of thing, as parents often are when it comes to their children, when he had changed the pitch of his voice for each story—a falsetto for the queen, a whistle for the bird’s tune. It had not been an Oscars worthy performance, but he had tried. His younger self had enjoyed it at the very least.

But back to the matter at hand, he did not have much time left to decide. Certainly, he could pick another story, one not overly steeped in memories like overboiled tea leaves, but he does not have the time for it.

And so, he speaks.

“There was once an emperor who lived in a porecelain palace, delicate and brittle but beautiful…”

He does not stutter as much, a perk from his time with Lucius. His voice is rather loud in the quiet of the library. At this hour, both the librarian and the scribe had retired for the night. They are the only two present tonight.

Grima expression eases somewhat—too focused on the story for his normal tomfoolery. In the light of the moon, pallid and peering, he could be mistaken for a man.

Kiran speaks of the nightingale, her voice tinkling like glass bells, and of the emperor’s joyful tears. He speaks of her daily visits to his palace and of her harmony. He continues with each verse—improvised and reconstructed from his recollections. Wherever a crack formed, a consequence of human memory and human limitation, Kiran fills it with bits and pieces, golden seams forming.

Perhaps it is a bit foolish, but he mimics his father, just for a moment. For the nightingale’s song, he whistles. It isn’t beautiful, nowhere near the bird’s true song and more of a human’s imitation, flawed and merely only satisfactory.

He doesn’t quite know if Grima enjoys the story or not. Like Robin, he is a difficult individual to understand. However, he continues anyways.

That is the role of a storyteller.

He speaks of the mechanical bird—studded and shining and decadent—and of its voice. For it, he whistles differently or rather, he attempts to. Kiran certainly isn’t an expert at that particular trade.

Perhaps it is too shrill, too breathy, but he tries.

He continues with the emperor’s illness and of death’s eventual arrival, hollow eyes cold and dispassionate. It is a fearful sort of stillness with its arrival.

Finally, he speaks of the nightingale’s triumphant return and of her mercy.

As the story winds down, Kiran sneaks a peek at Grima’s face. He isn’t quite sure what the other man is thinking; his face is neither pleased nor uninterested.

Had he merely embarrassed himself? Did Grima find his tale too bland, too juvenile perhaps? It is a fairy tale, sure, but a rather enjoyable one in Kiran’s opinion.

After a few moments of silence, Grima speaks.

It is with neither gratitude nor delight that he speaks.

“Bring me another story tomorrow—same time and same location. Don’t make me wait.”

And with that, the man stands, not bothering to replace the chair to its correct location, and departs.

That certainly went better than expected. Naturally, Kiran feels a sense of annoyance at Grima’s aloofness, but at the very least, Grima did not expel him from his presence.

He moves the chair back to its location, and he almost leaves for his room until he remembers the curiosity from his arrival.

Grima certainly wouldn’t notice if he checked. Would he even care? If he did, he would have brought the book with him. That is Kiran’s reasoning anyway.

Moving towards the shelf, Kiran fingers the top of each book until he locates it—a rather thick volume in red leather. Immediately, Kiran’s attention is drawn to the golden cursive of the title.

_Tales of Awakening_.

Undoubtedly, it is an uncreative title, but it is rather accurate, that much Kiran could say. Taking it from the shelf and flipping it open, Kiran quickly skims the first few pages.

It is a children’s book. Though more accurately, it is a book meant to be read to children for bedtime. The thickness of the volume attested to that. Each story would take multiple nights to finish, enticing children to bed early in hopes of seeing the ending. After all, there is nothing more unsatisfying than an unfinished story for a child, having grown to the age where life’s worries had begun to emerge from the sea of self-cognization but before it overflowed, rushing outward like a tsunami.

It is the age when one realizes their parents’ struggles and faults—their poverty, their ill-temperedness, among many others—and the fallibility of their authority. It is the cracks that appear on a snow globe. Unlike with a simple shake, porcelain snow flittering, one’s idols cannot control the weather nor can they stem unfortunate fortune—life’s charade.

It is the realization of fallibility.

The content is rather simplified—verbose and fanciful but sanitized of war’s less savory bits. With each page, there is an illustration, done in a strikingly dark palette. While dark, it is not imperceptible, shades melting together like night’s shadows. The colors, from the most notable to the most minute, blend well together, qualities highlighted further by the shading and the attention to detail.

Rather, it is reminiscence of a Rackham illustration.

When there is light—white, pale creams, and so forth—its presence is amplified beautifully.

Kiran flips further in, glancing at the illustrations. They are gorgeous illustrations, and he would not be surprised if Sharena and Alfonse had seen these during their childhood.

Though, he eventually feels an indent on the side of the fore-edge, near the end of the volume—a telltale sign of a dog-ear. It had been unnoticeable before because of the number of the pages, one concealed by many.

It annoys Kiran of course. Books, especially ones as beautiful as this, are meant to be kept in a near-ideal state. Furthermore, it is simply not his property. It is one thing to mark one’s own possessions and another to tarnish another’s.

But, he couldn’t say that he expected any less of Grima. The man didn’t care for much—for people or for possessions. Kiran flips to the page.

If it were not for the contents of the marked page (and Grima’s personality), he could have assumed that someone else had made the dog-ear. But, he could not.

The illustrated version of Ylisse’s castle is beautiful, whites and creams and blues blended together. Lovingly detailed flowers mark the stone-paved paths below a clear blue sky and waving banners. The people, garbed in reds and greens and an assortment of other hues, dance in the streets.

It is a beautiful page, vibrant in palette and contrasting the previous illustrations.

Besides it, on the opposing page, is a simple sentence—the end as it were.

_With the dragon slain and buried, peace returned to the land, and all was well. The tactician—accompanied by the priest—returned to Ylisse, and they all lived happily ever after._

* * *

Gunnthrá does not appear in his dreams tonight or on the next.

The day isn’t all too eventful either. He speaks to Lucius, always a pleasure but not too out of the ordinary, and checks in on the castle’s daily happenings. Alfonse is still confined to apple peeling duty, and Sharena is practicing her birdcalls with Feh.

(Askr’s messenger birds are a rather novel sight, flying between town to town and city to city. They ranged in exoticness from owls, such as Feh, hawks, and falcons to the more common homing pigeon.

He had asked Sharena about it once, amazed at the birds’ intelligence. He had assumed that they could only memorize one or two locations at best. Furthermore, the presence of the exotic breeds is an interesting sight; he had assumed they would be more difficult or even impossible to train. Most falcons and hawks would lose interest in the route. Birds like ravens and crows are too intelligent; they would rip the message off at the first possibility and use it as a toy. On pigeons, most could only memorize a location or two, their “home.”

Sharena had lightly laughed at his bewilderment, bemused.

“Askrians have a unique connection to our feathered friends, Summoner.”

Facing away, she holds out her arm and to Kiran’s surprise, a birdcall, indistinguishable from that of a real fowl, leaves her lips. There is a few moments of song before Feh lands on her gloved hand.

Sharena strokes Feh’s feathers for a few moments before releasing her once more.

She turns back to Kiran and speaks, “It is thought that Askr, our god, blessed us with the ability to open gateways, but he had also given us dominion over his servants—the birds. We have a unique ability to communicate with them.”

She points to her pauldron. “That’s also why we decorate our armor with feathers. As pretty as it is, it’s not just for decoration; it is in his honor.”

“Though”—she frowns—“I’m still a beginner. I can only communicate with Feh right now. A real master can work with any bird. I’m still better than Alfonse at this of course; he doesn’t quite have the talent for it, but my mother is still so much better.”

And with that, she finishes.)

He doesn’t forget Grima’s demand, but it passes by, much like anything else. He had chosen the tale of Mateo Falcone and his son, Fortunato, today.

Much like the story of the nightingale, Grima’s expression does not change all too much. It remains impassive, immovable by man as much as a stream or the rising sun.

However, Kiran notices a slight frown, an almost unnoticeable downturn of the lips, when he reaches the climax of the story—the dishonor brought upon Mateo Falcone’s house and Fortunato’s death by his father’s hands.

(He does have to explain what a pistol is, but Breidablik’s shape is helpful enough in this endeavor.)

It would be almost unnoticeable if he had not spent countless evenings in Robin’s presence. His mannerisms are uncannily similar, perhaps a side-effect of his vessel.

When he finishes, Grima demands another story. He would not say it, but he is not quite satisfied with the ending or perhaps, he simply craved another story.

As a reader, Kiran understands the feeling well, but still, he fumbles with indecision. He had prepared a list of stories beforehand, but they dissipate like stardust in the moment of necessity; the atmosphere simply isn’t right.

There are stories he enjoys—Edmond Dantès, Huck Finn, Rama—but none capture his fancy. He thinks Grima would enjoy the vengeance of Monte Cristo’s Count, but it is a long tale—difficult to tell without the book—and Huck Finn and Rama suffer from the same fate of some of his other choices, the need for extensive context.

The moonlight is no help either, no Cassiopeia or Orion would suffice tonight. But, it, their shared origin, does lead him to his next story.

“There once was a woman whose face turned a thousand ships and burnt the topless towers of Ilium…”

* * *

Today is mostly uneventful as well.

Hours roll by, and it becomes late noon. Thankfully, Anna had lightened up his tactician training to five days a week rather than the full seven like he originally had—a perk of improvement he supposes.

It is a rather neat bit of free time. Though, could it really be called that now? He certainly isn’t resting during that time. Instead, he is in the kitchens with Caeda—cooking practice. He isn’t quite sure how it had come about—he hadn’t asked her nor she to him after all—but like many things, it had simply fallen into place.

Today, they’re working on a vegetable stew. The mushrooms are cleaned and destemmed and the herbs packed into a sachet. Besides Caeda, a basket of russet potatoes rest. A few other baskets and glass bottles surround them—carrots, onions, and an assortment of other ingredients.

The flame had already been set beneath the steel pot. The broth—beef bones simmering besides the herb sachet and spices—is fragrant. A few porcelain bowls sit on a nearby table.

The pot is rather large for a mere two people, but thankfully, Caeda had persuaded the kitchen staff to taste test their concoction, late dinner as it is. It is a bit unbecoming of a princess to cook for the staff, but Caeda merely waves off Kiran’s concerns.

“During the war, I sat with people from many different walks of life. This should be no different.”

That had been her simple reply, and Kiran had not argued against it.

There are more important matters at hand, such as his sloppily cut carrots.

The sound of chopping fills the empty kitchen. Perhaps it is rather lonely, the absence of speech, but both Kiran and Caeda do not want to risk any more accidents.

Certainly, Kiran had a few more bandages on his fingers than before, and Caeda is much the same.

(Lucius had teased him the first time he had come around after his cooking lessons. Certainly, he could wait a few more hours for their meetings? He didn’t have to cut himself just for an encounter. It is playful, a bit uncharacteristic of Lucius, but they are fairly close friends now, relative to their circumstances. Whatever the reason, his teasing or Lucius’s gentle hands bandaging his own, Kiran feels his heartbeat quicken traitorously after Lucius’s mischief.

Thankfully, Lucius doesn’t comment on the preexisting scars.)

Kiran hears the sound of a door opening, most likely one of the kitchen staff or perhaps a servant in search of a nighttime snack.

(It certainly couldn’t be Gaius. The man would not use the door if it were so.)

He does not look up until he hears a chair sliding, and his heart skips a beat.

He certainly hadn’t expected Grima of all people to show up. The man refused to interact with anyone outside of his usual devilment and self-interests.

Grima notices his knife stilling of course. “Oh, stopped already? Don’t let my presence bother you. Didn’t you invite me after all? I didn’t think your offer ended already.”

Caeda, to her credit, answers for him, calm as always.

“It hasn’t. You’re free to stay and to taste our stew as well. Though, that will be another hour or two.”

She is rather serene despite Grima’s status as a menace to her world, or rather, its future. But, Caeda had always been this sort of person; it is one of her strengths, to turn enemies into allies. She had always been someone willing to extend the olive branch if circumstances allowed it.

Whether it is due to an overly virtuous and trusting nature or due to simple pragmaticism, Kiran could not quite say.

She nods to Kiran, an encouragement to continue. It is a silent sort of statement as well, she would protect him if Grima attempted anything, but for now, they are all merely allies sharing a meal.

Thankfully, Grima doesn’t say anything more, he simply watches.

Though, he still hasn’t learned how to correctly sit in a chair.

It is a bit difficult to cut with Grima’s attention on them, but eventually, Kiran gets back into a rhythm. His knifework is still rather slow compared to his mother’s, but it isn’t atrocious.

After a few minutes of near-silence, he hears the creak of chair and the sound of footsteps. Had Grima gotten bored of their demonstration already? Most likely. He is a rather impatient person from what Kiran has seen.

He expects to hear a door open, but he doesn’t.

Rather, Grima’s voice startles him.

“Stop, you’re cutting wrong.”

He had expected Grima to move for the door, not for the spot next to him.

Without asking, Grima grabs the knife and lightly pushes Kiran aside.

Readjusting the cutting board, Grima begins. To Kiran’s surprise, he’s actually quite skilled at it.

Grima, after peeling off the carrot’s skin with a peeler, cuts the carrot into three equal sections. Taking one of his newly acquired carrot pieces, he trims the sides, forming a rectangle. Then, he slices it lengthwise into slabs and then into sticks. Lining them up, he then dices them into cubes.

They’re rather perfect, evenly cut, and Grima’s knifework had been rather fast.

It is a rather amazing skill, considering its source, and Caeda seems to agree. She had stopped her own attempts to watch after all.

“This is a Parmentier—a medium dice.”

Grima’s voice lacks some of its usual snobbery. Not all of it of course; it wouldn’t be Grima otherwise.

“Your previous cuts were terrible. How did you even survive up until now? Even my vessel had more talent than that.”

It lacks some of the bite of his other insults, or perhaps Kiran had simply gotten used to Grima’s abuses. It is rather tame compared to some of his other actions and comments after all.

Caeda speaks, “Can you demonstrate it one more time? Perhaps a bit more slowly.”

Her voice is amicable, persuasive despite the shortness of her question.

There is a sneer of course, and it seems like Grima is about to insult them once more, but he stops at the last moment. Most likely, he found it to be too easy of an insult to take.

Taking one of the other pieces, he demonstrates as Caeda asks.

Grima then, to Kiran’s surprise, passes the knife back.

“You try it now. I’m not fond of doing a human’s work for them.”

And Kiran does. To his pleasure, his cuts are much better than before. Naturally, they are not as neat as Grima’s, but they are an improvement.

Grima goes back to his seat, lazing once more.

Time passes quickly as does the stew’s cook time. Kiran and Caeda, as they finish, add their ingredients.

And then, they wait. It is a stew after all.

Kiran expects for them to pass it by in silence. After all, they don’t have much in the way of conversation topics. However, Caeda defies his expectations.

“Where did you learn to cook?” Caeda’s words, tinted with curiosity, are obviously directed at Grima.

Perhaps Grima is simply in an unargumentative mood today, but he replies, lacking in his normal poison.

“It was originally my vessel’s knowledge”—there is a hint of satisfaction in his voice—“but I improved on his techniques of course.”

It is said in a way meant to unnerve them; it is an elephant in the room of course—his appearance.

But Caeda, to her credit, merely nods.

“Do you know of any other cuts then? Ones you would be willing to show us?”

Kiran expects Grima to decline—he is a rather contrary and difficult person—but much to his surprise, he complies.

Caeda motions for Kiran to follow her to the counter, and he does. It wouldn’t be much of a demonstration if he couldn’t see.

Grima’s vegetable of choice, of course, is the carrot. Those still existed in excess in the kitchen.

His knifework is quick, accurate and professional.

“This is the Lozenge cut.” He holds up a diamond shaped carrot piece.

“Rondelle.” This particular carrot piece is reminiscence of a gear. He had made several stripes lengthwise down the side of the carrot before beginning—more for decoration than any practical purpose.

Grima goes on to demonstrate a few other cuts—Paysanne, Julienne, and even Tourné.

There is a sizable pile of carrot pieces after he finishes, but the lesson is worth the trade in Kiran’s opinion. They could always be added to the pigs’ feed or used in other dishes as well.

The stew had finished cooking during their lesson as well, and Caeda, after turning off the flame, ladles it evenly into three bowls.

She passes the first bowl to Grima—most likely as a “thank-you” for his lesson—and the second to Kiran. She takes her own bowl back to the table, and Kiran follows her.

Seated, she calls over to Grima, “You’re welcome to join us over here If you wish.”

There is no reply from him. He remains near the counter, having pulled a chair over.

There isn’t much for Kiran to say, anything he could add would only sound hollow next to Caeda’s invitation, so he simply eats.

The soup is rather hot but not enough to burn. There is a hint of blandness, not enough spices, but overall, it is a better attempt than their previous ones. The vegetables are more flavorful and softer as well—a byproduct of their improved cutting technique.

Grima finishes his meal first, apparent by the clinking of his spoon against the bowl.

He doesn’t thank them of course. Rather, he merely leaves them with a critique.

“The stew is too bland. Add some star anise next time, and switch to a beef stock as well. Have your ingredients ready first as well. You two are both too slow to prepare it as you go.”

It is rather mild compared to what else he could have said.

“Don’t bother with a story tonight either, Summoner. I do expect you to be ready with two tomorrow, however. I grow tired of having to wait for your dimwitted mind to conjure one up.”

And with that, the door closes behind him.

* * *

Tonight, Gunnthrá makes her appearance, seated in her chair as always.

“I apologize for my infrequent appearances, Summoner, but I have to attend to the Crown.”

Kiran tilts his head. “I thought you were a royal?”

There’s a hum before Gunnthrá replies, “I am, but most of my privileges have been rescinded as a result of my induction into the priesthood. You can consider me a figurehead of sorts in that regard. I appear alongside my siblings for appearances and events, but unlike them, I no longer hold any real political power outside of what my status as priestess supplies me.”

She pauses for a few moments before clarifying, “Well, most of my siblings. Ylgr is still too young to be taken seriously by herself.”

There is a frown upon her face at that, though Kiran does not comment on it.

He is much more interested in other matters at the moment.

“And your siblings don’t care?”

Kiran is an only child, but he has heard of—seen as well really—the strength of sibling bonds. Certainly, Sharena and Alfonse are close, and this is not to mention the other sibling pairs and trios present at Askr Castle.

“They do, but there is not much any of them can do. Hríd is not yet king, and my other siblings do not hold much sway, rather disappointing to the more traditional members of the Court.”

There is a rather bitter smile at that, another crack in her façade.

“Disappointing?”

“We are a nation steeped in custom as you have most likely been told. We value our queens and their prophecies as well as our traditions—culture and religion and superstitions alike. But Summoner, have you’ve ever thought about what it would be like to live in a nation where the future, _our_ ideal rather, has been foretold?”

Kiran shakes his head. He had been too busy with Askr’s troubles (and his own personal dilemmas) to consider much of anything else.

“We are all human, Summoner. Do you understand what that means?”

It is more for theatrics rather than an attempt at a real answer.

“We are not gods. We are selfish, and we yearn for more. What is to say that a queen does not choose the yarn—the stars—that favor her most? Does her existence matter more than the country’s, or is it the other way around? And are these all of our available paths, or are they only hers? Furthermore, why is it that every single girl of our blood holds the gift? Should the bloodline not thin as Nifl’s line intermingles?”

Understanding is beginning to dawn upon Kiran, and Gunnthrá nods approvingly.

“Yes, not every girl holds the gift of foresight. Fjorm’s gift is middling—only a single thread ties her to the world of dreams—and Ylgr has shown no signs of it. It makes them, Ylgr in particular, rather tempting for the inner court.”

“Why?” He has an inkling of Gunnthrá’s meaning, but he wants her confirmation.

“Is it not obvious?” She tilts her head. “Queens without the gift are rather easy to manipulate; they hold the trust of the people, but lack the independence that prophecy would bestow. They cannot predict their allies or their enemies. They need the support of their advisors to uphold the masquerade. And with Ylgr’s age, it would be rather easy to act in her stead.”

She answers before he can ask.

“It is for power and safety of course. As I have said, we are selfish, as humans ought to be. If the country must suffer for a queen’s desires, then so be it. What are a few false prophecies and deaths to them? After all prophecies, even false ones, must come true for their namesake to be as such. It is mutualism for the queen and her cohorts, and parasitism for the people. If they must kill their competition, then so be it as well.”

The way Gunnthrá casually mentions sororicide and fratricide unnerves him, but she is a noble. Perhaps, she is simply used to these sorts of things.

“My mother is one of those sorts; she holds the gift of prophecy, but it is much weaker than her late sister’s.”

There is a smile then, lacking in her normal motherly kindness. At the very least, her statement explains her casualness.

“My gift is much more potent than hers, than most of my ancestors really. It would not be arrogant to say that my sight is the strongest seen in generations.”

She folds her hands on her laps before continuing, “Of course, this is not to say that queens with the gift are necessarily any better. We hold our people’s lives on the palm of our hands, and sometimes, they choose in favor of our own interests.”

“Why tell me this this? Aren’t you afraid that I’ll leak this to Askr? Nifl relies on your prophecies for their reputation.”

Defense went unsaid. Nifl’s reputation as an impenetrable barrier depended, in part, on their queen’s foresight. What use is invading a kingdom where the queen knew the enemy commanders’ every move?

Though, Gunnthrá has an answer for that as well.

“We are on the precipice of change, Summoner. Our actions now determine the future of our nations. Everything I have done and will do is for the sake of my siblings and our countries’ continued survival, and I have chosen the path of least conflict.”

There is a small smile then—knowing and sad. Of what, Kiran isn’t quite certain.

“And of course, I believe in Hríd as well. He will be a great king. Though, I do wish he wouldn’t ask me so often for counsel. As his sister, I do mind of course, but he must learn how to act on his intuition.”

That reminds Kiran of his earlier curiosity, and like many questions, he takes the opportunity.

“How is Hríd king? I thought you said your country valued tradition. If the crown is passed to the daughter, how did he come to it?”

Gunnthrá is rather patient, but perhaps she had already seen Kiran’s questions and prepared an answer in advance.

“My doing of course. Fjorm has always held an interest in the militia—even as a young girl—and I helped her cultivate it. A queen who fights on the frontline risks dying, and she is, fortunately, a stubborn girl. She will not quit or give in to the advisors’ behest. And on Ylgr, she is much the same. She is not interested in the crown. In all honesty, I think she would prefer to travel. Her personality does not lend well to the stacks of reports the role of ruler would require.”

She smiles again.

“It was difficult of course, but with my resignation, the circumstances of our family, and my own public recommendation for Hríd to take the throne, my mother had no choice but declare him heir apparent. There are dissenters of course, but those can be quelled by those who wish to see Nifl change.”

Her smile suggests that there is more to Hríd’s ascension—a darker meaning—but she does not vocalize it.

He wants to question of course, but she would most likely give a vague answer as clairvoyants are often inclined to.

Furthermore, Kiran isn’t quite sure on Gunnthrá’s logic. Certainly, she could see the hypocrisy and contradiction in her own actions?

“Aren’t you controlling them as well? I mean, you are directing their paths. How are your actions more just than theirs?”

He expects Gunnthrá to grow irate at his questioning, but her smile remains.

“Life is full of expectations, Summoner. We cannot escape them—we receive the mantle at the moment of birth—but we can choose _which_ responsibilities we take. What would you expect of my sister then? Would you expect her to take the crown? Become a priestess like me? I certainly enjoy my role, but she would not. I merely encouraged her interests. It is the same with each of my siblings. Ylgr has no interest in the royal life, and Hríd’s talents would have been ignored because of circumstances outside of his control. He has the demeanor and eye for ruling. Without my support—without my abdication—he would not be able to pursue his interests.”

She tilts her head. “To take part in life is not to run away from it nor is to cast away the entirety of our obligations. We must fulfill our responsibilities, but we do not have to always accept _what_ is thrust upon us.”

“Finally,”—she places a hand on her chest—“I believe that mankind should be the one to determine their ending—not the heavens nor the stars. Ultimately, we should be responsible for our fates. We must walk into the fog of uncertainty without a loaned torch. Furthermore, as I’ve said before, we, as humans, hold an innate want for more, whether it be for justice or for self-gain. I am no different in that aspect; I cannot say that my actions are entirely unselfish, but are not all actions motivated by self-interest? Certainly, some are more altruistic in nature, but in the end, everyone is driven by their own interests. Some are simply more abhorrent than others, and we must condemn that.”

Kiran doesn’t have much else to say. Gunnthrá seems set in her ways, and nothing he could say would change it. He doesn’t quite understand everything, but as always, that seems to be a requirement of prophets—unnecessarily cryptic statements.

“Perhaps, you see it as egotistical, but as I have said before, humans are selfish, and that is not always wrong.”

She sighs. “But I do apologize, Summoner. I must go, and our farewell must come.”

And with that, the world fades once more.

* * *

Today’s tea is spiced ginger.

Conversation is rather quiet today. Perhaps Virion is still upset at Grima’s arrival. Certainly, he wouldn’t be the only one. Lucina still wouldn’t talk to him outside of official business, missives, and the like.

It is rather uncomfortable, both because of the silence and because of his own thoughts.

The brown of his tea swirls with his silver spoon, just as his mind does. His worries flitter like loose leaves in the wind.

There is the obvious Grima problem, but that had eased somewhat with his discovery of the volume and with Grima’s visit to his cooking session.

Now, he feels an almost sense of pity for him. Perhaps it is human nature to emphasize with others, but intermingled with the fear is simple pity.

Rather, he is no closer to finishing his painting nor to ridding himself of his accursed ailment, but there is a certain terror to it for him. With each passing day, he finds himself more at ease, almost yearning for the impossible as a maiden would for a dance with a prince. Perhaps, Gunnthrá’s words had affected him more deeply than he would like to consider.

Though, that isn’t his greatest worry surprisingly, neither Grima nor his own failings.

It is not Gunnthrá’s visit either though that did vex him. Whatever she wanted, she had already set it into motion. The only thing he could for that is wait. They would deal with the aftermath later.

Rather, it is Anna’s question to him. Did he want to stay or did he want to go home?

It certainly shouldn’t be difficult. He had nothing there; his blood ties are nowhere near as tightly bound as Alfonse to Sharena or even their parents to them. There is no duty or love to tie him down, only obligation as ordained by blood.

He misses his books of course, but that is not enough when Zenith held a comparable amount. Mrs. Davis is nice as well, but they are not close. She had her husband as well. There are others ties to their world besides him.

(Though, he does wonder on the war’s progress. Had time simply continued without him? Or had it frozen without him? It is an arrogant thought, the wonderings of a fool, but he has them all the same. Existence certainly didn’t meditate on the suffering of one human being—it certainly doesn’t care when an ant is quashed—so why would he be any different? To the galaxies and stars spanning parsecs away, he is insignificance as the dust he came from.)

Though, what is home? It is a simpleton’s question, but it bothers him.

“Home is where you belong.”

Virion’s words startle him from his thoughts. Had he verbalized his thoughts? Most likely, considering Virion’s answer.

He clarifies, “It is where you feel the most at ease, whether it be on the road, settled in a house, or with loved ones. Though, it does often overlap.”

There is still a hint of confusion on Kiran’s face.

“Think of it like this then, Summoner. It is a place that you feel homesickness for—that particularly unpleasant ache in your chest—and the cure there. It is a bastion from life’s demands where one can still their hastening heart without worry. It is a place where the quiet consoles the visitor. It is a place of incomparable beauty for the viewer no matter the state; it does not inspire wonder like a sunset, but it is wonder all the same.”

“You’ll understand once you experience it,” Virion says after seeing Kiran’s continued confusion.

Kiran expects Virion to quiet then, having answered his question, but he does not.

“I am not angry with you as well, Summoner. Disappointed, perhaps, but it will pass like all things.”

A faint blush appears on Kiran’s face. Though, he should have expected it in all honestly. Virion had always been good at picking up these sorts of things.

Virion takes a sip of his tea ad frowns. Perhaps he had overboiled today—the tea is bitter— but, he adds a dollop of honey and stirs.

“I do hope you know what you’re doing, however. During my adventures with the Shepherds, we visited another future, one near-destroyed by Grima. The Robin there, she did her best to restrain it.”

He continues to stir the tea, warm gold dissipating into the tea.

“My daughter—or a version of her rather—had been one of the participants of that particular battle.”

Kiran doesn’t quite know what to say. Certainly, what would one say? He could not ask about how the battle went. Certainly, Virion had survived it—he is here with him after all—but about his companions, his daughter and her friends? He could not misstep or risk committing a social faux pas.

He couldn’t respond with a simple nod or anything of that sort either. In Kiran’s opinion, it is too nonchalant of a response for something as serious as this.

Thankfully, Virion saves him from his indecision.

“It is not a question of your competence, of course, but Grima is…difficult. It is not a being to be reasoned with nor is it something to be taken lightly of.”

He sighs.

“I merely hope that both you and our commander understand where we come from when we express our displeasure at its arrival, and that you understand the risks inherent to its continued presence.”

As he finishes, Virion stills his spoon and rests it on his saucer.

There isn’t much more to say as Virion brings the teacup to his lips.

* * *

Virion’s judgement is rather harsh but unsurprising considering his previous encounters with Grima.

Though, Kiran couldn’t quite say that he disagreed with him; his first meeting, if such a benign word as that could be used to describe it, had been atrocious. He still remembers the flames and the shaking of his hands as he held Breidablik. It had only been little over a week or two since their meeting after all.

Trust is not built in a day, but pity and duty often override that.

(He remembers the concern as Caeda had rushed towards Marth. The man had not appeared outwardly troubled by his experiences in the forest, but she knew him best. Or perhaps, it had been merely the concern of a loved one rather than anything as exclusive as that. Love did need any reason or extraordinary relations to worry.

Certainly, he had glimpsed Deirdre from the corner of his eyes in much of the same situation—surrounded by her loved ones. Sigurd and Seliph had fretted over her, and Arvis, Julia alongside him, hovered in the background, concern obvious. Their situation is a rather strange one, but the affection had been obvious.

The Shepherds’ concerns had been the highlight of the day for the majority of the castle’s residents. Certainly, it had been that way for Anna.

Though, he couldn’t quite say that that had been the most memorable memory of that day. Perhaps, it is foolish, a silly sort of thing to remember, but that particular quality had belonged to a much simpler event.

He had gone straight to his quarters that night, skipping his normal visit to the infirmary. The exhaustion of the day and the memories of his near-death experience—for that was what it essentially was—had worn at him.

He woke a few hours later to a knock on his door—Lucius. The man had held a roll of bandages and one of his medicinal salves in hand. The concern had been rather endearing, though Kiran had to reassure him that he was perfectly fine. However, that did not stop Lucius, still worried, from simply depositing his bandage roll and salve into Kiran’s hands.

It had been a simple conversation—one that had never crossed the doorway—but it held a certain charm for Kiran, foolish as it was.)

Though, no matter his own personal opinions, he would have to continue.

Grima is waiting for him in the library after all.

* * *

“In the city of Paris, the Palais Garnier opera house is belie—"

Grima cuts him off, “Tell me about your world’s religion today.”

Naturally, Kiran feels annoyance. What normal human being would enjoy being interrupted? Furthermore, he had spent a rather substantial amount of time on his story decisions today.

“We have multiple religions. Which one wou—”

He cuts him off again, “Whichever one you’re most acquainted with. You think I am familiar enough with your world to decide? Luck certainly played a part in your instatement as tactician.”

Kiran would like to grumble at Grima’s tone, but he is correct despite the enmity. It had been rather foolish to ask.

As like before, his time with Lucius aids him with recounting the tale of Adam and Eve. It is a rather bland first choice, bit it is a practical sort of bland. After all, it would be easier to explain original sin, a key basis for the religion, if he explained its origins first.

He does not stutter, voice skipping like a stylus upon a scratched vinyl record. Rather, his tone is even, each word smooth. Though, he doesn’t add quite as many flourishes as with Lucius. He doesn’t feel quite as comfortable with Grima.

Grima’s expression doesn’t change throughout his retelling. Kiran hadn’t expected much in all honesty. Why would he after Grima’s near-indifference during his previous narratives? Perhaps the most he could hope for is the same sliver of dissatisfaction that “Mateo Falcone” brought.

He describes the radiance of the garden’s creator and the decree given—the one rule of the garden. With each word, the garden forms once more—fruit trees springing forth and bearing fruit, flowers blossoming shyly, and animals forming, bone and blood and cartilage intertwining.

The serpent’s scales shine brilliantly blue this time as it crawls in the garden.

He describes the fruit, dangling a brilliant red upon its throne, and the pair’s ignorance as they bit into the fruit. He describes the horror of realization at their nakedness and the realization of their knowledge—veil of ignorance shredded like silk threads upon a scissor’s edge.

He continues forth with each verse—the call of anger, the sword of fire, and so forth.

“…and with that, Adam and Eve were forced from the garden, their knowledge as punishment upon both them and their descendants.”

With that, he finishes.

He expects Grima to perhaps demand another story or even simply frown. Despite his penchant for sarcasm and insults, he didn’t speak all too much otherwise.

He certainly doesn’t expect Grima to comment upon the tale.

“Foolish. What creator establishes a rule like that? If they expect failure certainly, but that speaks of nothing but cruelty.”

It is a bit hypocritical for Grima to speak on matters of cruelty, but Kiran isn’t going to voice those thoughts. He does try to explain, however. He may no longer believe in it in its entirety, but the reasoning remain etched in his mind.

“Some believe that it was a test of their character, and they failed.”

It is one of the simpler explanations, but there are near countless theories. He’s certainly heard enough of them.

Grima sneers, “You stated that this particular god is all-knowing. Should he not know that the serpent would tempt them? If ignorance is the natural state of man, how are they to blame for their decisions? Why did he make the serpent then if he knew it would lead them astray?”

These are all headache-inducing questions more fit for a theology major rather than a college dropout, but Kiran does his best.

Though, he certainly couldn’t rationalize it either.

“They were designed with free will in mind and given the role of steward for the other creatures in the garden. And they failed. He didn’t abandon entirely though. There is a plan for redeeming them.”

Perhaps it is a bit vague, but he doesn’t think that it would be a good time to mention the Crucifixion or the period inbetween the garden and that particular event. Certainly, Kiran doesn’t think an explanation of Sheol or Limbo would help Grima’s mood all too much, much of the opposite rather.

Thankfully, Grima doesn’t ask on what “redemption” entitles, though his expression worsens, nonetheless.

“Redemption?” There is a hint of disbelief in his voice. “For merely acting as expected? What _benevolent_ ”—that word is filled with disgust—“god does that to their creations? Sets them up for failure?”

Kiran shrugs. It is a rather difficult topic to approach, and Grima seems incensed enough.

“I’m told God works in mysterious ways. Though, you can see it as a parable if you prefer—an explanation for evil in the world. Some believers do. There’s a lot of different explanations for it, different sects as well.”

There is another sneer.

“So, my choices are to believe that humans are foolish enough to rationalize cruelty as benevolence or that they cannot commit to their actions, preferring to blame some outside source.”

There is a sharp bark of laughter, bitter and not at all unlike that of a hyena’s.

“Rather, typical of your kind really. I’m not sure why I expected differently.”

Grima leans forward in his chair.

“Tell me, Summoner, of monsters and men, who do you think is the worst? The man who creates the creature he eventually abandons or the monster who acts as is expected of him?”

It is sardonic, almost on the verse of laughter.

Kiran doesn’t answer. He feels like he missed something, something vital.

Whatever the reason, Grima’s demeanor soon returns, now contemplative and melancholic.

In Kiran’s opinion, Grima is a rather mercurial creature.

Grima waves Kiran off. “You’re free to go now. I do not need to hear of any of your world’s other religions. I expect you to return tomorrow night, however.”

Kiran nods and leaves. Why wouldn’t he? Grima is a stubborn individual. If he set his mind to something, he expected it fulfilled. He doubts Grima would tolerate another explanation or story. It might even ruin their progress as friends—miniscule as it is currently.

Though, he could not help but feel like he’s failed something, some unseen test perhaps.

* * *

The morning after, he speaks to Lucius on the matter. He had considered Virion, but the man would most likely not enjoy that sort of conversation. Their conversation yesterday is enough proof of that.

And on Corrin, the man is simply unavailable. Anna had sent him away on a mission near the borders.

“…I’m just not sure where I stand with him. One moment, he’s placid and the next he’s in a frenzy. It wouldn’t be as much of a hassle if I knew what incites his fits! But he won’t say, and I can’t ask him for obvious reasons.”

Lucius nods and passes Kiran a mortar and pestle—herbs already set.

Crushing the herbs into a powder doesn’t solve his problems, but it does help alleviate his mood somewhat.

As Kiran works on grinding the herbs, Lucius speaks, “Some people are naturally difficult to understand, and friendship takes time to build. Do not take it to heart.”

His words wouldn’t be too out of place in a fortune cookie, but Kiran nods. Lucius is right, even if his words are rather trite.

As irritable as Grima is, he isn’t as mindlessly destructive as Kiran had originally thought. Certainly, his interests in stories and his culinary skills attested to that. That is a rather large positive to the situation.

Perhaps, it is a vain hope, but it is a hope, nonetheless.

* * *

Tonight, Grima’s sitting posture is much better, though it still isn’t ideal.

His chair is pulled up against a table, and he rests his cheek against the palm of his hand, elbow upon the mahogany of the table. If they were in Kiran’s own world instead of Zenith, Grima would the picture of a university student—tired, irritated, and preparing for midterms. All he needed was a few more pens and a notebook upon his table.

At the very least, he isn’t sitting backwards in a chair.

He sits across from Grima today. It is a rather close proximity compared to the other nights, but Kiran is glad for the seating. Standing for hours on end isn’t all too good for his bones.

As Kiran prepares to speak—“Call me Ishmael” at the tip of his tongue—Grima interrupts.

“What is your desire?”

His eyes are expectant, red glinting in the light of the moon. In its light, he appears inhuman, too ethereal to be considered a common man.

Kiran replies automatically. He had thought of it since childhood, since the world of ink had opened to him.

“I want to be a well-known artist or writer.”

By the curl of Grima’s lips, it is a wrong answer.

“Wrong answer, Summoner. I asked for your _desire_ , not your dreams.”

Kiran is confused. “There’s a difference? I _desire_ to be a well-known wordsmith then.”

“Yes”—his voice is curt as he ignores Kiran’s sarcasm—"there is no desperation in your voice, no longing or necessity. Is it truly what you want or something you chose because society expects you to? Or is it a childhood dream you no longer care for but default to when asked?”

It is a bit presumptive of Grima to ask, but Kiran thinks. Certainly, he hadn’t felt as strong of an urge for renown since his arrival in Zenith, but that did not mean he no longer cared for the arts. He simply held less of an interest in the fame that accompanied the status of master artist and master writer.

He considers a few more moments before replying. Grima most likely wouldn’t let him leave until he got a satisfactory answer.

“I desire nothing at the moment then.” That is his own truth, he thinks.

“Liar!” The word comes as a snarl, startling Kiran. He hadn’t expected that from Grima—curtness yes, mania no. “Everyone, from beast to man, desires something. Everyone _expects_ something. Is it attention for you or independence perhaps?”

Kiran certainly doesn’t expect the rush of motion as Grima leans over the table and grabs his coat, pulling him forward roughly. From here, Kiran can see the dilation of his eyes—pinpricks of ruby in the moonlight—and the whites of his canines.

“Or are you like my vessel and desire freedom? You’re certainly both liars—one more so than the other—though I’m not quite sure who’s worse.”

Kiran feels a hint of confusion at that. Robin had always been a free spirit of sorts, but the latter part is rather enigmatic.

Though, Grima merely cackles at his confusion, peals of laughter sounding to a joke only he knows. In the silence of the library, it is the sound of a madman.

Kiran feels the grip on his coat loosen as Grima pushes him away. Kiran’s chair tips as he scrambles to stand. Thankfully, Grima hadn’t chosen a table near the shelves or else he would be sporting a rather large bump now.

“He really hasn’t told you? I thought birds of a feather flocked together? You both certainly enjoy living in ignorance, running away from your problems and following after priests.”

Kiran’s blood chills at that.

“What do you mean by that?” Whether Kiran means the former or the latter part of the statement, he isn’t quite sure himself.

He says it simply as if it should explain everything. “I have his memories. He is a coward just as you are.”

“That doesn’t explain anything.” His voice is rather forceful, but he thinks it is justified considering Grima’s current accusations.

“Should I really explain? I thought your sort valued privacy, friendship and all that?”

There’s another bark of laughter at the word “friendship.”

“Yes!”

Grima leans forward, hands clasped underneath his chin. It is an obnoxious sort of pose, meant to infuriate.

“He is lying, simple as that. Amnesia? A lie piggybacking on the words his counterpart. Being found in a field by that prince? Another half-lie—he certainly hadn’t corrected you—taken from that woman. Why do you think they hold so many differences?”

Grima leans back.

“Did you know? He only left Plegia out of selfishness—after that priest of his. Otherwise, I don’t think he would have cared if they burned Ylisse to the ground. He would have been content to live a life of comfort and ignorance as his people suffered. At the very least, I could respect that—human ambition and a human desire for safety. Instead, his loyalties lie with love, and that is the most selfish thing of all.”

“Then why would he be a Shepherd?” Kiran remembers Reflet’s words; she is a good judge of character.

“Why wouldn’t he be? Libra agreed to help, so he did as well. His network of friends may have grown, but he still holds one above all else. If he decided to switch allegiances, who do you think my vessel would follow? He is the worst sort of person—someone willing to throw their convictions away for love. Or perhaps, would you find that romantic? Your kind are certainly strange about that.”

“How would you know that?” He doesn’t remember mentioning Robin’s (apparently false) amnesia or the field.

Grima’s reply is simple. “I listened in outside the door. Certainly, you don’t think your commander’s spies are the only ones snooping around?”

His bluntness is shameless, but it does not stop him from continuing.

“And on you? You’re stagnant, afraid to jump and afraid to fall. You’re unwilling to take a chance on anything. For you, life must bow its head before you deign to even walk.”

Kiran wishes to argue, but Grima does not stop. He would not let him speak, not until he finished.

“Humans are selfish creatures, but their ambitions are something to be admired. Their greed is to be admired. What they want, they take. That, by itself, is something to be respected.”

He frowns then.

“But you…why are you so afraid to be human? You work as a mule does, following orders with little ambition of your own, but even then, the mule desires to survive. You do not.”

“How would you understand what it means? You’re not even human. You have his memories, but you can’t possibly understand. You don’t have the nuance for it.”

His words are angry, biting because of Grima’s accusations. They sting in a way that only truth brings, assuaged only by denial.

“I don’t, not entirely.” His answer is even, neither hurt nor angered. It is the voice of acceptance, one used for stating obvious fact. “I am a beast, no more no less. However, there is one thing I fully understand—expectation. Men may label me as god, but I am nothing more than their wish for permanent destruction—freedom from life’s pains. Certainly, Naga would agree with me. They may expect differently of her, but she and I…we are not much different. She is a savior just as I am an executioner.”

There is a hint of wistfulness in his tone, though perhaps, it is merely another figment of Kiran’s imagination. It disappears rather quickly with his next statement after all.

“Though, if you cannot tell me your desires…then what do you expect of me?”

There is a familiar tilt of the head, questioning. His eyes glint, almost as if expectant of something.

A strange question considering his previous ones, but Kiran must answer, nonetheless. Grima would expect no less.

“I want to be friends.” It is a simple enough answer—a half-truth.

Another frown mars Grima’s face.

“Liar”—his voice is low, unlike his first utterance of the word—“you would not have brought Breidablik then.”

Kiran is agitated. Grima is mercurial, wholly commanded by his whims. Every one of Kiran’s answers is wrong to him in someway or another. As a result, his tone is rather rude in his response.

“Why wouldn’t I? You tried to kill me when we met. Trust isn’t built in a day.”

Grima hums. “Would have I attempted to kill you the next time? Perhaps not, perhaps yes. You certainly don’t know about my inclinations. You haven’t even attempted to know me. All of your offerings? Suggestions from someone else, never your own or mine. Every single occasion we’ve met so far, it has always been based on _your_ expectations.”

There is another pause. Certainly, Grima is correct, but he is also irrational. Would most sane people leave their only form of protection elsewhere? He thinks not.

Kiran opens his mouth to retort, but quickly shuts it as Grima stands, chair legs squealing as he pushes it outward.

Kiran takes a step back as Grima approaches him. He expects violence (perhaps he had been right about not meeting Grima in darkened areas), but nothing comes.

Grima only stops in front of him.

“Try to be more human next time, Summoner.”

With that, Grima merely brushes pass him, shoulders bumping.

Perhaps he should be angrier, but he only feels like he has failed yet another test.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did mesh together Deidre's "endings" here a bit, or rather, the Holy Maiden idea. You can also see more of Kiran's bastardization of famous phrases here such as with "Mount Tai."
> 
> And honestly, it is rather hard to avoid Grima in FEH fic (not that there's that many in comparison to mainline entries anyway). That and the ability to summon Naga, Nagi, and all the other deities/near-deities/what-have-you. It really messes with the worldbuilding since it raises the question of how powerful Breidablik and Zenith summoning is (considering it can force various "gods" to obey). Perhaps I shouldn't think too hard on it.
> 
> You can also see bits of Grima here. I do think he is rather "humanized" at points but that is an intentional juxtaposition, and FEH did try and do that with his Lv. 40 quote in the game, so I think I am a bit more justified. Though as always, it is always up to the reader to consider if justification is correct or not.
> 
> But really, the concept of humanity is a fascinating one. the reversal of ideals is always interesting to approach.
> 
> You can also see the idea of preconceptions here. If it is not obvious yet, F!Robin and F!Corrin could be considered as the ones taking the "canon" path of the games rather than their male counterparts who have their own stories. That is why they, especially Robin, seem so different from canon. I think it is a rather underutilized idea in fanfiction honestly—to be able to play on reader's expectations of canon and fanon and so forth with a viable reason. When you've read fanfiction for a long time, one tends to overlook and/or play with characterization to where discrepancies are unnoticeable or tolerated.
> 
> Similarly, I would not take Anna's friendly nature at face-value. Consider what she has said with other pieces of information. She isn't evil or anything of that sort, but think about her friendliness towards Kiran and his seemingly unrealistic yet previously unchallenged expectations of war and medieval-esque time + a seeming penchant for tactics. As always, it is up to interpretation, and I have my own answers, but I encourage the reader to make their own conclusions. Whether she is as benign as she acts or otherwise, it is always interpretation.
> 
> As an aside, I actually do have +10s of Virion, Jakob, the pre-3H male avatars, Caeda, Marth, Michalis, and a few others. Viron actually is my Abyssal map clearer+Raids offensive linchpin. and he's been on there before refine. He honestly just has one of the best lv. 40 quotes in the game. This is a bit relevant since while this is one of those "for the art/craft" works (as if the opening chapter and the rare pairing didn't give that away), I did give priority to the ones I have in my Askr. Luckily enough, many of them did fit what I wanted from this, so they got a few sections.


	9. Thus Spoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ultimately, growth requires practical experience rather than simply knowledge from books. Kiran finds that Zenith is not as idyllic as he would like it to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, so ends a rather long fanfiction. Today's title comes from Thus Spoke Zarathrustra by Friedrich Nietzsche. I think it is rather apt for the entire work even if the man is probably rolling in his grave at such an amateur work taking inspiration. Ha.
> 
> And finally, the other Nifl siblings get to show up. I think it is justified to tag them considering the length and parts they play in this chapter. And the title of this entire work comes from a line from Paradise Lost.

When dusty winds of war rise on the earth

Young wives' cheeks of rose are blanched with fear.

Oh sky above, so blue, so deep,

Tell me who is to blame for these misfortunes!

— “Lament of the Soldier’s Wife,” Đặng Trần Côn

“Why did you lie?”

“Oh?”—Robin glances at him as he stacks his tomes—“About what? Your reading assignments? I certainly didn’t lie about that. You do have to read _Deceptions of the Bedchamber_. You can’t put it off forever.”

‘No, I mean about your past. If you don’t have amnesia, why lie about it here?”

Kiran expects Robin to dispute it, argue or dance with his words as he usually does. A straight answer is rather hard to pry from the man. Would he claim that Grima’s words are a lie? It certainly wouldn’t be a hard statement to sell; Grima’s character is rather questionable. Or perhaps, he would have undeniable proof to disprove his accusations entirely?

He doesn’t believe Grima entirely of course, but Robin’s mannerisms and differences are rather odd. It is a matter of curiosity.

Though, he doesn’t expect Robin’s answer.

“I never lied”—his voice is as bland, matter-of-fact, as one commenting on the weather—“I merely omitted the truth, and you never asked. You assumed I had the same experiences as Reflet.”

Robin moves another of his books to side. His first pile had been getting rather large—liable to tipping over.

“It was rather fortunate of course. I value privacy, you know?”

He pauses, as if considering something, before moving another of his books—a particularly thick tome bound in red leather and sealed with a metal clasp—to the new stack. It is a rather obnoxious sort of behavior, a detachment meant more for dealing with a pesky fly rather than with a co-worker.

“I understand the concern for privacy, but still, why not correct me? Or Reflet’s Chrom for that matter? Why would you need to hide here?”

Robin considers another of his books before replying, “I don’t, but that doesn’t mean I want everyone to know my business.”

Another two books are placed atop the stack, now four in total.

“Furthermore, that is _Reflet’s_ ”—he emphasizes his counterpart’s name—“Chrom, not mine. I hold no loyalties or obligations to him, no matter how similar their appearances are.”

He snorts then, “If I did, it’d be rather hard to decide if mine ever showed up here.”

That reminds Kiran of another of Grima’s tidbits.

“Grima said you only joined the Shepherds because of Libra, that your loyalties are only to him. Is that true?”

There is another question, unsaid, in his statement.

Robin turns him—a first in their current conversation. His eyes are rather dispassionate, but he had never really been someone who displayed a wide range of emotion. Outside of amusement or annoyance, he had never really seen Robin act differently. At least, he had never seen it. Perhaps, he is different in Libra’s presence.

“And you trusted him?” Robin tilts his head. “That is rather naïve for someone of your position. We need to work on that later.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Robin, languid as a cat, pulls out a chair and sits down across from Kiran. For anyone else, Kiran would think it an attempt to stall time, but it isn’t. It is Robin after all.

He may be silver-tongued—ambiguous to a fault—but he loathes to waste time.

“Do you really need an answer for that? Do you _want_ an answer?”

There is the familiar position, one that Kiran had gotten quite used to in his (rather short) time with Grima. The familiar head tilt, cheek rested against palm and elbow upon wood. Even the glint of amusement is much the same.

The only different is in the shade of the eyes—honey brown, sun gazing upon noon’s wheat fields.

It is an obvious sort of answer, but it takes all of Kiran’s will to force the word pass his lips. It should not be difficult, but Robin is a difficult man.

“Yes.”

“Then it is”—his voice is languid as always—“It shouldn’t bother you, however. Libra is here, and he is a virtuous man. He would not betray you, and so I wouldn’t as well.”

It is a rather bold answer despite the subject matter. He had admitted to something tantamount to treason after all.

(Though, could it be considered treason if Robin had been summoned? Certainly, it isn’t as atrocious as Valter’s insinuations for example, but Robin is one of their tacticians, not just a mere fighter. Though, at the very least, it would be grounds for a dismissal.)

Robin repeats himself, “He is a virtuous man, a moral one.”

Whether it is for Robin or for him, Kiran isn’t quite sure.

There is another pause, and Kiran isn’t quite sure what to say—not with Robin’s gaze directed upon him.

Thankfully, Robin starts before Kiran embarrasses himself.

“If you do not trust me, then trust in Libra’s judgement.”—there is a thin smile—“I certainly do.”

That is…rather ominous, a bit confusing as well.

Robin notices of course.

“I am not a just man, and I never will be.”

It is an easygoing sort of statement with a tone akin to one stating a fact such as the morning sky’s color or the hue of a bird’s feathers. It is rather astonishing how easily Robin dismisses himself. With his regular temperament and normal mannerisms, Kiran would not have expected such a disparaging statement directed at himself.

“Libra isn’t either, but he tries, and that is something I trust—that I admire really. A man who claims to be perfect is nothing more than a sham performing for others.”

It is still rather confusing for Kiran, but Robin continues, “I trust him to be honest, and so, I offer everything—my love, my faith, my abilities—to him.”

Robin readjusts himself, switching to the other elbow and cheek. The wood is rather hard after all.

“Do not misunderstand. I have my own beliefs as well—we sometimes argue quite a bit on those—but Libra is someone who I _trust_ ”—he emphasizes his last word—“and value above everyone else. Hmm…perhaps, you would call that “fools-in-love?” It’d be certainly correct; people in love often have negative IQs.”

Perhaps, that is Robin’s version of a harmless joke.

“I would walk into hell for him, and overturn the world if he asked”—another smile, thin and eerie—“I’m simply that sort of person, not very virtuous as you can see. Perhaps it is the fault of my upbringing or a natural element of my being, but it is what it is. I am someone who would walk pass the suffering of the damned without a thought spared—and I have in Plegia—but he is not, and so I am as well.”

It is rather unnerving to hear Robin speak as he does now.

“It is selfish of me of course, but it is to be expected. Humans are inclined towards self-centeredness. The ones who don’t are anomalies—heavenly beings cast down upon this earth. For whatever sin, I’m not quite sure, but it is enough to condemn them here with us. ”

There is an argument to be made here—Hobbes versus Rosseau—but Robin claps his hands, startling Kiran from his thoughts.

“But enough questions about me! What about you? Have you’ve finally found the courage to court Lucius? It is coming close to a year—a few more months until your first meeting—right? The tiptoeing is becoming rather obnoxious, and your work with me is suffering as a result.”

Kiran remembers the red ink markings on his assignments—the notes he had taken over each chapter—but that isn’t the most important part of Robin’s statement.

It is the subject of Lucius.

Kiran has no doubts about the flush of his cheeks as he speaks, “What do you mean?”

It is a weak question, but he must. He must raise the fences or risk his own damnation.

Robin is wholly unimpressed, and with ease, he tears down Kiran’s walls. He truly is a devil like his other self.

“You know what I mean—the quickening heartbeat, the glances, everything. It is rather obvious.”

“Obvious?” That certainly doesn’t comfort him. It only flusters him further.

Robin catches his meaning of course. Why wouldn’t he? He is rather clever despite, or rather, because of his obnoxiousness.

(First Corrin, and now him? Is he really that obvious?)

“Don’t worry. You’re not that interesting. It isn’t an open secret or anything of that sort. Do you really think someone like Jaffar would care enough to notice? Rather arrogant if you do really.”

Robin leans forward, elbows resting on the table.

“So, what’s the problem? Did he reject you? Lack of courtship ideas? I can’t say I have any good ideas if that is the problem. My start with Libra hadn’t exactly been normal.”

There is a story there, but Kiran is too nervous to ask.

“So?” Robin nudges. “We have another hour, and you aren’t leaving until then.”

Kiran wishes that the other tacticians are here. Perhaps Robin wouldn’t be so forward then, but they are all off on their own assignments.

“I-I”—there is no point in hiding it when it comes to Robin—“I’m nervous.”

Visions of hellfire and damnation dance before his eyes, enticing and seductive and warm. It feels like he is standing at the edge of a cliff, rushing river and bedrock below. It would be simple enough to fall, arms spread.

It isn’t a lie, but it isn’t everything.

Robin raises an eyebrow at that, still unimpressed.

“That’s it? Surely, there must be more.”

For Robin maybe. He seems to be the sort to have never experienced a hint of anxiety in his life.

There is a moment of hesitation from Kiran, and Robin takes it.

“What’s the entire story?”

(On paper, it would be easy enough to say. In the grand scheme of things, his problems don’t matter all too much. It is akin to a butterfly being swept away by a typhoon. In the overall scheme of life, it isn’t much, but to the butterfly, it is everything.)

At Kiran’s silence, Robin’s eyes soften slightly, “Look, I’m not the best person for these sorts of things, but I can at least give you some advice. Is it some societal issue? Are you afraid of rejection? I can’t comment on your world all too much—I don’t know enough about it after all—but I can at least listen.”

There’s more silence. This isn’t like his conversations with Virion; Robin isn’t someone he knows all too well despite their afternoons together.

His misconceptions about Robin’s past are enough proof of that.

“We’re both human. Why don’t you take a chance? Whether on this or on Lucius. As trite as I find it, we only have one life to indulge in. Why not take a chance and indulge your desires?”

Robin’s words are rather similar to Grima’s. It is rather hedonistic, but Kiran doesn’t voice that thought.

It would be easy enough to take a step forward and fall. Though, he isn’t quite sure if there would be a safety net at the bottom. But when had life fulfilled ever have one? The fear exists there—in the crevice of chance and in the fog of what-ifs. It is a fear of rejection, an adherence to norms learned through socialization.

The nail that sticks out gets hammered down.

But, he is no longer in his own world. Shouldn’t it be easy enough to cast away the masks of Melpomene and Thalia here? Life is a stage where one’s roles are decided at birth, but should he at least attempt to grasp at more?

Perhaps their words are infectious, but is it not human to want more?

Robin shifts once more, moving to stand up. “Well, we only have about ten minutes left. If you’re sure on silence, you can lea—”

“Wait. I…I can talk about it if you have time.”

Robin smiles before sitting down. His position is much of the same as when they started, cheek resting against palm and elbow against wood. There is a glint of curiosity in his eyes.

He is the picture of a Cheshire Cat, unhurried and softly smiling.

With his free hand, he waves for Kiran to start.

Sitting in front of him now, Kiran isn’t quite sure if he should speak or if should simply withdraw his previous statement. It would make him a coward, yes, but it would at least ease his budding nervousness, at least for the moment.

However, to put the mask back on would be easier, but it would not solve his problems.

Thus, Kiran talks. Perhaps he is too verbose, too juvenile, but his worries spill out, burst from their cage.

It is hard to begin but easy to continue.

He talks about his parents and his town and on religion. He isn’t quite sure if Robin understands everything or if he could. They are strangers in almost every sense of the word, but perhaps, that allows for new perspectives—new horizons to consider.

He stumbles when he vocalizes his fears, like a toddler learning to walk or a chick learning to sing, but he does. He speaks on his reservations about Lucius—not on the man himself—but on his own disgracefulness.

And all the while, Robin merely listens, face unmoved.

As the words dwindle down, silence overtakes them.

“Well, at least you got it out.”

That is a bit of an understatement from Robin, but he is right in all technicalities.

“However,”—there is that familiar tilt of the head—“I can’t say I understand entirely. The Grimleal were rather free with that sort of thing. It was more an issue up north.”

Kiran hadn’t expected much from Robin. These sorts of matters are often met with a variety of insipid answers, empathetic but not all too practical. Rather, the most that the majority could do was to merely listen. It is easier enough to offer the idea of advice and another to truly provide it.

Furthermore, the embarrassment and regret are beginning to set in, as is often the case with these sorts of situations.

(It had felt freeing as he spoke, but embarrassment soon follows, shackling him once more in expectation.)

Kiran feels the urge to leave; it is often easier to bottle one’s embarrassment alone after all.

As he prepares to stand, Robin speaks, much to Kiran’s surprise.

“I do have advice though”—he motions for Kiran to sit down—"as I said before, simply take the chance. It is simple as that.”

There is a bit of disbelief at that. Had Robin not understood a single word?

Robin notices of course. “I’ve heard what you’ve said, and my advice is still sound. Take the chance. Why shackle yourself to what others think? And for that matter, people that aren’t here. _You_ are the one responsible for your life, not them.”

Kiran doesn’t quite think Robin understands the implications of his words. He had said it himself; the Grimleal had had no reservations about those types of matters. He would not be able to understand the ramifications of such an action.

Robin shifts once again.

“The worst Lucius can do is reject you. Askr is a rather _ideal_ ”—there is a hint of cynicism in the way the word rolls off his tongue—“place. Furthermore, you’re both not going to be here forever—both in the literal and metaphorical sense. Both of you will eventually return to your own worlds.”

Home. There is the question again, even if it had taken a different form.

He continues, “So why not take the chance? Live as a person should and take what you want, even if it just the opportunity of it. Who cares what others think? Or what the god thinks? They certainly aren’t here to argue. Live as you want. and take the consequences later if that is your belief.”

It is an entirely hedonistic selfish answer, but Robin had grown up with the Grimleal. Perhaps their fatalistic beliefs—certainly a cult centered around the essential apocalypse should have those—had influenced him or perhaps, as he had admitted before, it is merely a natural part of his personality. Whatever the reason, Robin is shameless.

“Really, I think a life taken with utmost caution is a life squandered. And you? As nicely as I can put it, you—as you are right now—are on that path.”

The words stings, infuriates him like the buzzing of flies. Again, had Robin not understood anything?

Kiran readies a rebuttal but before he could speak, a pat on his shoulder startles him. Robin had reached over, pass his tomes and his papers, with his free hand to touch his shoulder.

It is a rather friendly gesture considering their current conversation.

“Really, live a little instead of worrying so much about others. You’ll find life easier once you stop caring so deeply. Furthermore, what was that saying you used once? Praising what is lost makes the remembrance dear? Think of the memories you could have if you simply try.”

Those are the words of a hedonist, and he wants to speak, but Robin starts before he can.

“By all means, hold what or who you consider dear to yourself, but do not get bogged down by it. Your life is yours, and you must live it. It is your duty as a living being to seize your desires. It is what reaffirms our existence.”

Hedonistic and contemplative—a rather poor combination in all honestly—but that is Robin.

Robin withdraws his hand then and stands, moving towards his tomes once more.

In Robin’s particular terms, the conversation is now over.

Kiran stands, pushing in the chair as he does and makes for the door.

With Robin’s rather particular (and fickle) nature, there isn’t much point in staying if he deigned not to listen. It is rather like a mule, too stubborn to move unless a personal interest is involved.

(He wouldn’t say it out loud of course. Robin is a petty man, and it certainly isn’t help by what he knows now.)

Furthermore, they are rather late today, having extended their meeting by an hour or two.

Goodbyes wouldn’t do

Though, as Kiran moves towards the door, Robin speaks once more from where he stands.

“Love is human—selfish—so why shouldn’t you be as well?”

He truly is a devil.

* * *

Robin’s words linger in his mind as he attempts to start his painting. The red swirls easily from the tip of his brush, but his mind isn’t quite in tune with his body. The lines are sloppy, more fit for an amateur’s brush than someone with over a decade’s worth of painting experience. This time, it certainly isn’t his perfectionism as Libra had implied before.

The painted lines drip, watery droplets cascading like a weeping statue’s tears. It certainly isn’t his intent, but his mixing technique tonight is rather off and as a result, so is the consistency of his paints.

(He would most likely have to repaint the canvas white once his current mess—he couldn’t call it a project without shaming the very nature of artistry—dried. The canvas’s current state wouldn’t even be fit for one of his world’s landfills.)

Of course, he knows the source of his troubles. It is rather obvious considering the conversation had only taken place hours before, but it is not the content that bothers him the most.

It is the fact that words linger in mind, etched into his visage like Phidias carving Athena and creeping underneath his skin like tattoo ink.

Of course, he had heard something similar before from Grima, but he hadn’t taken as much stock in his words. For someone like Grima, who had engulfed the world in flame and ruin, selfishness is expected.

It is one thing to consider advice in relation to his work, such as with his tidbit about Robin, and another to accept life advice from a human-faced beast.

He certainly isn’t human enough—no matter his appearance—to understand what it truly meant to be human. It is simply opinion born from observation and conjecture.

However, it is a different matter when it comes to Robin.

Despite his manner of conduct, Robin is human.

He is human.

Perhaps, that is why his words bother him so.

(He remembers his conversation with Gunnthrá of course, and she had said much of the same—that selfishness is inherent. He remembers her doll-like façade cracking, fractures spreading like a spider’s web, as she spoke on the humanity’s claim on the future and the lure of stars. Certainly, her beliefs are of a humanistic nature, but could it really be considered that if she followed her visions? It is paradoxical, but that is Gunnthrá—a being of flesh and blood with a porcelain visage.

Though, her visions did raise a rather startling amount of questions. If she could foretell the future, was anything really their choice? Or was it simply predetermined? But, no matter her own abilities, Gunnthrá had placed an importance on their choices—on the urges of humanity and on their rightful claim on a world without the influence of the heavens.

Her words linger in his mind, accentuated and spurred on by Robin’s own beliefs. Certainly, her ideas seemed more noble than his, but still, they are cut from the same cloth.)

But worst of all, it makes him wonder, contemplate what-ifs that should not be.

It make him want to act, to indulge in impulses.

Lightly scarred hands, soft threads of hair, and a brush of rosy lips upon his.

He is human, inclined towards fleeting joy over eternity.

He is selfish.

* * *

Kiran is rather restless today. His sleep had been poor, dreams intruded upon by eccentricities and unreasonable wishes.

It had been a pleasurable experience as dreams often are. Logic and inhibition cast aside until dawn’s sight, he had indulged himself under Morpheus’s apathetic gaze. Gentle hands and words unspoken in the realm of the waking. His imagination had filled in the gaps where his experience lacked. The feel of hands on his skin, the press of lips, and the silk of bedsheets.

It had been vague—in both physical touch and taste—as dreams are often inclined to be, but it had been enough for him then.

It had been intoxicating, akin to swallowing red wine. One drink had simply not been enough. He had overindulged, gluttonized.

And like with gluttony, shame and regret engulfed him the morning after.

He couldn’t quite bring himself to visit Lucius today, not after his nighttime affront. It isn’t something he could apologize for either; he could not alleviate his guilt. And apology only bring up unnecessary questions and awkwardness.

He couldn’t imagine looking the man in eyes after his transgression.

Furthermore, would Lucius even want to see him anymore if he learned?

It isn’t something he wants to risk speaking of.

He continues his day with a plastered smile and a rather sluggish step.

* * *

Life returns to normal for the most part.

Alfonse returns from stable duty (if it could be called that), and Kiran returns to his reports and errands.

Grima is still a nuisance, obnoxious in his demands, but for the most part, it is preferable to the alternative. Obnoxiousness, while trying, is much preferable to murderous intent.

Of course, not everyone is happy with his presence. Certainly, the Heroes from the World of Awakening do not enjoy it (for rather understandable reasons if Kiran is to be honest). However, anger—like a flame—can only burn so bright before fizzling out.

Though perhaps “fizzling” isn’t the most accurate word to describe it. “Smoldering” would be a more accurate description. It isn’t that their (rightful) anger had ceased entirely, but it had dwindled into a loathing tolerance. Like a reeking match, their fury could ignite at the barest touch of fuel, accidental or otherwise.

It is a rather difficult situation, but Kiran is certain that their personal feelings would not interfere with Askr’s goals.

They may despise Grima, but they are warriors as well. In war, resources could not be wasted. Even with Grima’s loathsome disposition, his power and worth are indisputable on a battlefield.

However, Grima certainly isn’t making it easier. He jokes and prods at them, laughs at their misfortune. On some days, his barbs are sharp—polished like the edge of a newly forged dagger—and on others, they merely nick like a sewing needle, carelessly drawn through the cloth.

(Kiran notices how Lucina’s hands clench into fists whenever Grima is around. Certainly, she had the most reason to dislike him, but she is also the one who knows his power—his worth—best. She had seen and experienced the aftermath of his rampage after all.)

Outwardly, life returns to its routine.

Though, the same could not be said for his dreams.

They are plagued by want, by coy specters—faces masked with familiar countenance and tender conduct. It is his damnation they seek, smiling sweet all the while. It is only in the light of the moon and only in the delusions of slumber that he indulges his immoralities.

Of course, he draws out the night—the time before he sleeps—but it is not enough.

He is human, and he must sleep.

His dreams are a blur, metaphysical body dancing by the puppet strings of desire and fantasy’s illogical reason. It is a plague, an illness of the mind and a blemish on his character, but he cannot resist sleep’s irresistible draw.

He is pathetic, driven by desire and need as a beast would be.

However, the worst of the matter lies in his own shortcomings.

As loath as he is to confess, he welcomes the dreams each night. He resists of course, but it is a futile effort. He feels his resistance weaken each night, eroding like uncovered stone on an open field. They chip at his guard with cold fingertips pressed lightly against his unclothed flesh and deceitful words upon their tongue.

It is a punishment, a world of empty desires and sinful incompleteness forged by weakness. Lips press against his skin, and he cannot feel. Words are spoken, but they contain no real significance. Nose pressed against shoulder, he cannot smell the comforting fragrance of herbs and earth.

It is a hell of his own mind’s imagining, but more than anything, he dislikes how he desires more—actuality and reality over mocking fantasy.

He is selfish.

He is human.

* * *

Today, there is a bounce in Sharena’s step as she drags Kiran around town. It is a rather unprompted trip, a “spur-of-the-moment” sort of occasion. Compared to last month, the streets are rather uncrowded, visitors having left and winter decorations gone.

However, that did not mean the joy had left as well.

The town’s residents wave to them as they pass, and the children play in the streets—chatter abundant like chipmunks and leather ball bouncing between them. Overhead, washing lines crisscross, clothes and cloths fluttering in the wind.

And as expected, Sharena waves back to them, cheerful as always. She even bounds towards the children, playfully steeling their ball with her footwork before bouncing it on her foot and knees. It is a rather impressive display of coordination as she weaves between them all the while maintaining her control over the ball.

The children certainly seem to think so. Rather than annoyance, they display only delight at her actions. To them, it is a meeting with a hero. After a few more moments of play, Sharena bounces the ball gently towards the oldest child, and it lands in her hands.

From where he stands, a safe distance away, he can hear bits and pieces of their conversation over the bustle of the street. There is the expected excitement and awe from the children and a promise from Sharena to teach them her movements on a different date.

After finishing, she motions to Kiran to follow her.

Kiran isn’t quite sure what Sharena’s destination is; he had only followed along at her insistence. He doesn’t mind all too much of course. As always, her liveliness is rather infectious, easy enough to sink into.

It is simple enough to ignore his dreams and the prodding of his thoughts with someone like Sharena around. She talks enough for both of them and leaps from topic to topic. There is no time to ruminate with her around. They walk, with Sharena taking the lead and Kiran as the follower, always a few steps behind her. It is much easier to navigate the streets without the added stress of tourists and festival stands—no badgering from lost sightseers or demands from merchants. Of course, the merchants of the market district are still zealous, but Sharena talks her way through it well enough.

At the very least, they’re confined to the marketplace rather than present on every street.

Apple in hand from a particularly friendly shopkeeper, Sharena continues along with Kiran behind her. They move between streets—pass the bakery and produce stands and out of the market district and to the edges of the town. They move from street to street and between alleyway and alleyway without much trouble. It spoke to Sharena’s experience and familiarity with the town.

After roughly a half hour of walking, Sharena stops, destination reached.

It is a little park, secluded from the bustle of town. Unlike the park that Corrin had taken him to, this one had no obvious attractions. There is no duck pond or even a children’s swing set. The only visible item is a bench—black metal speckled with rust from years of rain and wind—set beneath a tree, trunk thick and bare branches twisting.

He almost thinks that Sharena had made a mistake—it isn’t a grand place after all—but she goes to sit down before waving Kiran over. Sitting down, Kiran still isn’t quite sure why they’re here. It certainly isn’t for the view or for the comfortableness of the bench.

However, Sharena remains uncharacteristically silent, contemplative even. Around them, the world hustles, moving on without their interference. The birds flitter overhead, glass-paned wings spread and melodies chirping, and the faint sounds of town life—the clip-clop of horse-drawn stagecoaches, the singing of washerwomen, and the distant cajoling shouts of the merchants—echo.

He breaks the silence first.

“Ah…is there any reason why you chose this location?”

Perhaps it is an awkward way to broach the topic, but Sharena’s current demeanor is rather unnerving.

She snaps to attention. “My apologies, Summoner! I got lost in my thoughts for a second.”

She quiets for a moment before speaking.

“Alfonse and I used to come here whenever our father visited the Order. I told you about how we met Anna, right?”

At Kiran’s nod, she continues, “Well before we met her, our caretaker often took us here while our father worked with the commander—Order business and all. She used to buy us custard tarts whenever were in town and afterwards, she took us here.”

She notices Kiran’s incredulous expression. “I know this place doesn’t seem like much, but she would show us her magic here—bursts of sparks, little curling dragons made of flame, and so forth. I actually learned a bit of magic from her, though Alfonse never quite got the lessons down. He just doesn’t have the eye for magic.”

Silence descends on them then before Sharena claps her hands. Her cheer then is a bit forced, even to someone as oblivious as Kiran. He wants to ask about the caretaker, but he thinks better of it.

If it is a memory that upsets even Sharena then it most likely isn’t worth asking about.

Furthermore, her gaze is intent, serious and lacking in her previous (normal) liveliness. It makes him a bit nervous in all honesty. Certainly, what could cause Sharena of all people to act like this? He only saw this side of her during their battlefield excursions.

“But! That’s not why I brought you here”—her gaze is set on him—“I wanted to ask if you are okay.”

Her answer baffles him, not because of the concern—Sharena is the type to worry—but because of the elaborateness. Surely, a question such as that could be asked at the castle and not at a near-abandoned park?

Of course, she had anticipated that.

“I thought you might be more comfortable here,” she explains, “you can be a rather private person, not that that’s a bad thing of course.”

The last part is rather hastily added but at the very least, she is honest.

She continues, “I’m just worried about you. You have been looking rather unwell lately.”

Kiran couldn’t argue with that. He had noticed how the dark circles underneath his eyes had deepened in intensity and how sluggish his movements have become. He knows the reasons of course. They haunt him every night—succubi garbed in night’s terror and splendor.

However, he would not elaborate on such matters to Sharena. With his knowledge of her inclinations, she would no doubt attempt to interfere. Furthermore, it is a rather…embarrassing matter by itself.

Thus, he paints a smile on his face, worn but hopefully reassuring.

“It’s nothing major. I’ve just been tired lately—worrying about the war. We’ve been having a rather nice few months lately, no battles with Embla and all. It is rather suspicious.”

It isn’t a complete fib, but Kiran could not mention his dreams in the slightest. With Sharena’s curious nature, she would prod further in hopes of learning their contents.

He would not be able to withstand that.

Thankfully, Sharena’s face lights with worry at his answer.

“Oh! I’m glad you’re worried about Askr, but you need to take care of yourself. Your health is important.”

There is a tinge of guilt as Sharena frets over him.

It especially stings when she offers—or rather drags—him to a local restaurant as an attempt to boost his morale.

But—as often with secrets—irrationality and perceived appearances often overtake integrity.

It isn’t a complete lie.

* * *

The second month of the year is rather subdued compared to the twelfth despite the presence of a festival.

The Day of Devotion.

It is an event almost analogous to the Feast of Saint Valentine outside of a few key differences. First and foremost, the dates are different. Rather than taking place on the fourteenth, it began near the end of the month on the twenty-first—a whole seven days after its counterpart.

Secondly, it did not focus entirely on the romantic aspect of relationships. Rather, the festival, as its name would suggest, celebrated devotion—both the platonic and romantic varieties.

It is a festival for the familial sort and for both lovers and

Sharena had explained it during their restaurant visit. Certainly, it is easy enough to understand, especially with his own knowledge acting as a supplement, but he lets her speak anyway. She seemed to enjoy explicating, and it is the least he could do in return for her concern.

Over a plate of marinated fish skewers, she had explained the intricacies of the festival. Comparatively, it isn’t as extravagant or as long-lasting as the Winter Festival—lasting only three days compared to seven and marked by a combat tournament rather than with fireworks.

(It is rather ironic considering the subject of the festival, but Zenith is a rather different world from his own. The differences in values could be attributed to its less idyllic nature.)

In particular, Sharena is rather excited about the idea of gifts, both the idea of receiving and giving and on the hypothetical contents themselves—ranging from the more standard pastries and chocolates to items such as rare tomes and staves.

It is a cheery sort of conversation, quite unlike their chat from a mere hour ago.

Hypothetically, it should also be an easy sort of conversation to fall into.

However, Kiran finds his mind drifting, interest perked at the idea of gifts.

It isn’t for the thought of receiving of course, but rather, he thinks about gifting Lucius a present.

It is a rather foolish idea—something that would most likely incite the phantasms haunting him into a frenzy—but the thought would not leave him. Like his dreams, they would not vanish with the night or a draft of wine or a brew of herbal tea.

Rather, they meld with his other thoughts and memories. In particular, Robin’s words come to mind.

In comparison to the immortals and akin to mayflies, their time together is evanescent, fleeting and formed on necessity. Certainly, a year (or more accurately, a few months short of one) is a rather long time, and they would certainly spend many months more together because of their work.

(A year, in reality, is rather short. To a child who has a mere five years to their name, it is long. But to an adult, it is nothing more than a blur of routine—menial business rather than pleasure and insouciance. Like the sands of an hourglass, each granule of sand accumulated until each minute, hour, and year no longer mattered.)

But, as it remains, the reason for their meeting and cooperation is still business.

They would need to part one day, like ships passing in the night.

Would it truly be terrible to take a chance, brief as it is?

* * *

Strangely enough, it is neither Virion nor Caeda (with her natural propensity for interfering) that he receives courting advice from. It is neither Robin nor Grima with their manic beliefs. It is not even one of the children or even the childlike near-immortals, overly eager as children are for playing matchmaker. Certainly, characters like Nowi and Elise would be eager to help, welcomed or otherwise.

Rather, it is Niles.

Niles is an uncomfortable man in multiple respects for Kiran. He is provocative, sly, and overly open about certain, private relations. He is an antithesis of many of the things that Kiran considers normal.

Perhaps Kiran is too much of a prude—he is certainly standoffish at times—but the man is someone that Kiran prefers to avoid outside of business. He would prefer if he hadn’t summoned him at all.

(He could simply send the man home, but Niles, despite his nature, is a fantastic archer.)

And even during business, he prefers to let Alfonse deal with him. A bit selfish, of course, but better Alfonse as the scapegoat than himself.

(Furthermore, it is rather amusing how red Alfonse’s face flushes after each encounter. It seems as if the prince couldn’t build up a resistance to innuendo. A but hypocritical considering his own stance, but it certainly isn’t the worst.)

He hadn’t approached him for advice of course, hadn’t even hinted to anyone that he was interested in another human being.

(He couldn’t quite count Robin or Grima. Those two are rather extraordinarily keen when it comes to human nature. At the very least, Robin is. It would not surprise him if Grima had merely “borrowed” Robin’s knowledge or made a guess in an attempt to rile him up.)

But Niles is Niles, and he had always been keen to the discomfort of others.

Niles approaches him a week and a half before the Day of Devotion Festival. Though, “approaches” is somewhat too sincere of a word to use. More accurately, Niles spooks him on the way back to his sleeping quarters.

It’s a shock how quickly and easily Niles corners and drags him into an unoccupied side room, locking the door behind them. He almost thinks it is an assassin until he hears the other man’s insufferable voice.

“So, Summoner, I hear you have a crush.” Kiran doesn’t quite like how he emphasizes the ending, but he tries to keep his face passive—advice from Corrin. Niles is someone who likes reactions—thrives off of them really. Though by the slight quirk of Niles’s lips, he doubts that he succeeded.

(Kiran doesn’t understand how Corrin could stand the man or even call him a close friend. But Corrin—and by extension, Kamui—are caring people for better or for worst. While their values, genders, and allegiances differed, in the end, they were still the same person at their core. It is a rather strange contrast to Robin and Reflet.)

He doesn’t respond so Niles takes it as permission to continue.

“What is it about you tacticians and priests? The other one—the one without pigtails— prefers them as well. Is it about the temptation, the luridness of fucking—“Kiran physically winces at that, Nile’s smile widens a bit.

“—in a church? Perhaps a confessional if you’re particularly daring?”

This time, Kiran responds. It is not what Corrin, or anyone really, would recommend. It is an obvious attempt at provocation—even for Niles—but Kiran couldn’t stop himself before he lets a word slip out.

“N-no.” He stutters more than he would like, but Kiran isn’t used to these kinds of confrontations. Anger of course, but not ones that required a person to be either versed in wordplay and innuendo or impenetrable to such advances.

Even with Grima, the beast had taken to violence rather than sexuality.

He is more used to being able to get away, to isolate himself until the problem went away. If that didn’t work, yelling did.

Whether his shaking “no” is to Niles’s initial question or to his more sensual taunt, it remains to be seen.

“No?” His voice curls at that. “You certainly seem to spend a lot of time with him, a majority of your time actually. I’m almost surprised you haven’t been cleaved in half by his grumpy friend. His axe is certainly big and menacing.”

Kiran almost replies again but manages to stop himself this time.

“But! That’s not the main reason why I dragged you in here pass your bedtime.” That causes some disbelief, and Niles notices. “As fascinating as your love troubles are, they’re causing quite the stir among anyone with an eye. You’ve been slipping up in battle, botching your commands more than usual. It’s quite a bother to see everyone at the infirmary every day. We’ve had a break from that of course, what with the festivities, but we’re fast approaching the end of that. As much as I enjoy hands-on care, it is getting tiresome.”

Why would Niles care? Despite his words, Kiran knows that he isn’t a regular at the infirmary. His skill and role in their army—infiltrator, spy, whichever term one preferred but never truly on the frontline—meant that he rarely saw downtime in the infirmary. Most injuries that he sustained could be solved with a simple potion and bandage or even mere bedrest—time for the scratches and shallow cuts to heal.

(Perhaps, he had relied on Kiran’s rather narrow field of attention for his fib. Certainly, Kiran doesn’t notice who frequents the infirmary as a patient, not enough to memorize the regulars anyway. However, he does listen as it were. Lucius—whenever the topic reaches his work—never quite mentions Niles among his list of patients.)

Niles shuffles a bit, and it suddenly clicks for Kiran then. He is dense sometimes, but he has read the tale of the Nohrian Prince.

“Is this about Corr—“

“No.” Niles’s voice is harsher then, lacking in the playfulness of before. At his tone, Kiran stops, doesn’t attempt to continue. As uncomfortable as Niles’s innuendo is, his seriousness is more so.

“Anyways, try starting off with some flowers—carnations or tulips are charming. Tied with a ribbon—silk naturally—if you’re particularly serious. You want to dazzle him, and roses are a bit strong for your current relationship. Simple enough, yes? You can ask your commander or the florist if you want specific arrangement advice or anything fancier.”

He doesn’t leave room for Kiran to respond before he makes his way to the door. It is a bit quick, but Kiran assumes he is somewhat agitated by his previous question. That was certainly a first for Kiran.

Niles had always been a patient man when it came to his jives, quick-witted as well.

Though as always, Kiran is rather naturally curious and somewhat emotionally dense. He could not help but press further, right as Niles’s hand grasps the doorknob.

“Are you su—“

“You didn’t summon the right one.”

And with that, Niles exits, leaving Kiran alone in his discomfort.

* * *

“Flowers for a cute girl? Parents perhaps?”

The florist’s voice is rather cheery as he asks. A tall man with freckled cheeks and sun-kissed skin, the florist is fairly attentive (and exceptionally chatty). Though perhaps that is unsurprising considering the current state of his shop. The flower stands are near emptied of their contents. Only a few potted plants remain—prickly cactuses in earthy toned pots, pink heathers, and a surprisingly overlooked chaenomeles, blooms red and vibrant.

On the cut bouquets, the display buckets are near-empty. Most of the bouquets and sprays had been purchased—immediately taken home or now set in the back of the store and awaiting tomorrow’s loading and delivery by trolley.

Outside of Kiran and the florist himself, the shop is rather empty of patrons.

Kiran only gives a noncommittal hum in response to the florist’s question. He isn’t quite comfortable with the idea of vocalizing who his recipient is.

(If pressed to answer, he certainly isn’t here on Niles’s suggestion. Before Niles’s impromptu intervention, he had already considered flowers. However, the certainty needed for such a visit had taken a toll on his time. He had thought—pacing across the floor of his room—on an appropriate gift. His ideas had ranged from baked goods to chocolates to flowers. When he had finally decided, time’s hands had already ticked forward to the twentieth.

Though, he hadn’t expected the flower shops—all nine of them—to be sold out or nearly so.

In hindsight, he should have expected this outcome. Most people would have bought their gifts early, and stragglers, like himself, could only scavenge among the remains. He couldn’t quite change his mind on the matter either. The majority of the higher-end restaurants in town would be booked with reservations, and unlike with his world, one could not simply call in to place a reservation.

If he were to change his plans to a restaurant, he would have to walk to each individual location and check—a futile and wasteful effort. The same applied to the chocolatiers and pâtissiers; the majority would be too busy crafting their final orders to take any more. He couldn’t quite bring himself to buy premade confections either. It simply lacks the flair and thought that he wants in his gift.)

“Do you have any other flowers?”

It wouldn’t hurt to ask. While the chaenomeles are pretty, he certainly didn’t want to go with what amounts to a choice of necessity. Furthermore, it isn’t like he could visit the other stores for a (slightly) larger variety. Like this shop, many of them had sold their goods early. Some had even closed for the day—“Open” sign flipped to “Closed” and doors locked. Additionally, even if he decides on one of the previous bouquets now, he doubts that he could retrieve it in time. Someone else would most likely snatch it before he arrives.

It isn’t like his world where he could call and reserve it.

(At the previous store he visited, there had been a bundle of anemones—blossoms red as the silk of an áo dài and petals as wide as the sleeves of a hanfu. It had been a rather pretty arrangement, dressed in satin ribbon and white pearl strings. However, the meaning of the flower itself had been a rather huge deterrent.

Kiran isn’t one to believe in every superstition, but the idea of giving that particular flower on an occasion akin to Valentine’s Day is rather egregious, even for him. It is an action that could only court trouble.)

The florist pauses, his chatter stopping.

“We do, but they’re rather expensive.”

The florist moves towards the back of the store, pass the empty stands and behind the counter. Bending over, he retrieves four vases from the counter’s display case before setting them on the counter.

The flowers are rather similar in shape to a lotus flower. Outside of a few differences—the coloration, the number of petals, and the faint glow to them—they would be near identical. On the flowers themselves, each vase held a different hue—calming blue, sandy yellow, verdant green, and rosy red.

They are a gorgeous set of plants, and Kiran isn’t quite sure why the florist had hidden them in the display case.

“I usually sell these on the day of the festival,” he explains, “they’re quite difficult to procure, so it’s much easier to sell them during the tournament, rather than the days before. Most love to gift the victors with them—tradition as you know. Most people, mostly non-nobles, balk at the price, and it takes up valuable display space, you know? So, I usually keep them here rather than on a stand.”

He pushes the vases closer to Kiran. “These are dragonflowers. They’re rather popular among the nobility as gifts for their color, longevity, and for their health benefits.”

“Health benefits?” Kiran had seen a brief description of them in Lucius’s book, but it had been a rather sparse description compared to the other entries—a consequence of the flower’s rarity.

“Dragonflowers are a long-lived flower. Even cut, most can survive months without wilting. As a result of their properties, many often consider them a “charm” of sorts—something that can ease or even prevent illnesses and injuries. They’re a rather popular choice of gift for those who enlist. It’s honestly rather superstitious at times.”

He shrugs. “Of course, there must be a basis in fact. For example, the petals are a fantastic medicine when ground up and ingested—fantastic for fighting off infections and strengthening the immune system I’m told. The leaves can be brewed into a tea that helps clear the skin and eases aches and colds. There’s a plethora of medicines that can be made from this flower.”

Kiran nods. The idea of a flower preventing an injury is rather silly—it most likely couldn’t stop a sword blow—but the medicinal properties are rather attractive.

The florist picks up a flower—one of the blue ones—and gently twirls it between his fingers.

“The colors of these flowers are thought to represent specific values as well—yellow for chivalry, green for vitality, red for longevity, and blue for clarity. Many folks prefer to choose based on which value they want to impart on their recipient. Personally, I think any of them will do; they’re all fragrant and pleasant.”

Finishing, he tucks the flower back into its spot.

“How much for the red ones?”

The florist answers, and Kiran winces. He hadn’t been teasing when he alluded to the price earlier. Even a singular flower is pricey.

However, he is rather set on them as a gift. In part, it is because of the price—grandeur is often tied to price after all—but primarily, it is for the flowers’ properties. For an herbalist like Lucius, a flower with properties such as the dragonflower would be invaluable for both research and treatment.

Furthermore, the more superstitiously imposed properties of the flower are rather enticing.

Longevity.

Lucius is certainly someone who he wishes the best for.

“I can put them back now if the price is too high. You were considering the chaenomeles, right?” The florist clearly hadn’t been expecting a purchase. More likely, he had only wanted to explicate; the store is certainly devoid of patrons, and the man had been most likely bored before Kiran’s visit.

Kiran makes a choice then. He could crunch the numbers later.

“No, it’s fine. I want all of them.”

“All ten?” The man’s surprise is evident in both his voice and expression.

Kiran nods and pulls out his coin pouch. The purchase would set him back financially for a few months, but it is worthwhile considering his recipient.

(A beaming smile directed only at him. Certainly, this is what Adam and Eve felt in the midst of God’s gaze—trepidation and adoration.)

He leaves the shop with a bouquet—wrapped in white silk ribbon—cradled in the crook of his arms.

Under the afternoon sun’s rays, his footsteps intermingle with the sounds of town life.

* * *

Kiran almost wishes that Gunnthrá would appear in his dreams once more. While still an intruder, her presence would at least drive away the night’s lecherousness.

Furthermore, he could prod, or at the very least, try to prod, her on today’s upcoming events. In the most likely scenario, she would only smile and change the subject. In a more favorable (though less probable) situation, she would merely bestow some cryptic statement for him to decipher.

Whatever the hypothetical outcome, it certainly wouldn’t help him now—not when the subject of his distress is minutes away.

Sitting on one of the stone benches in the castle garden, Kiran nervously shifts the bouquet from one arm and to the other. It is a pointless movement, but he is nervous, and at the very least, it is better than picking at the ribbon.

It wouldn’t do to give a bouquet with a frayed and dirty ribbon.

“Kiran?”

A soft voice stirs him from his thoughts, and he feels the familiar warmth of someone sitting down beside him.

Lucius is lovely as always, cheeks tinted with nature’s natural blush and gold strands framing a handsome face. Long lashes flutter above a deep blue, and the flush of his cheeks only accentuates the pretty white of his skin.

It takes all of his will to speak, to not stutter and make a fool of himself. There isn’t much ceremony—all of his previously practiced speeches had dissipated in the moment’s anxiety—as he hurriedly pushes the bouquet into Lucius’s arms.

“Here. I got this for you.”

Even to his own ears, the words are curt, lacking entirely in the charm he had hoped for. In this moment, he is no Don Juan. He wants to wince, to redo the moment and become a something more akin to a Prince Charming than a fumbling court fool. But, that is impossible, a defiance of the natural order of things.

Like with many things, time only comes once.

Surprise fills his eyes momentarily before being replaced with gratitude. Hugging the bouquet closer to himself, Lucius smiles, mouth peeking out from beneath his scarf, and Kiran’s heart warms—Eros’s fires comforting and detrimental.

In this moment, it would be easy enough to confess, to take a chance. It would easy enough to shatter or mend his heart. Certainly, rejection or acceptance (as unrealistic as it would be) would be better than the uncertainty.

However, his mouth remains shut—useless and ornamental as a doll’s thread stitched lips. As much as his mind urges his voice to sound, his tongue lulls uselessly—words dull in its toothy cage. If this was a fantasy, he could blame his muteness—his cowardliness—on a witch, but it is simply reality, fearsome and devoid of a hero’s innate valor.

It is simply his own deficiencies.

Despite his tongue’s temporary uselessness, his eyes remain sharply aware of Lucius. Despite the months that have passed, he hasn’t changed all too much outside of the seasonal addition of a scarf and mittens. Perhaps it should bore him—the routine and simplicity of his appearance—but it doesn’t.

Rather, it only charms him—the gentle understanding and the patient kindness. It is in his mannerisms, the way he tucks his hair behind his ear—always with the forefinger and thumb—and his habits: the slight crinkle of his eyes as he smiles, the half teaspoon of honey that he always stirs into his tea just before sipping, and a plethora of other little quirks. It is in his gait, in the way he holds himself.

Rather than disregarding the man as he should, Kiran finds himself keenly attuned to his routine and to his mood.

Thus, Kiran finds himself at a bit of a loss when he sees a bit of expectation in Lucius’s eyes. Certainly, he could still see—feel really—the gratitude, but what did the other man expect?

He finds his voice—now away from the subject of courtship—working.

“Are the flowers okay?”

Silly, foolish, juvenile.

But, it is the only words he could find in this moment.

Perhaps, Kiran had imagined it (alongside the expectance), but a tinge of disappointment flashes in Lucius’s eyes. It is not the flowers—Lucius is not the sort to fake gratitude—but there is certainly something amidst. However, Kiran is not sure what the other man specifically wanted.

Should he have bought more flowers? Or did the man want something else in particular?

“They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

Lucius’s voice is lovely as always. Certainly, Kiran doesn’t mind hearing him speak.

He expects a silence to descend on them as it often does in these sorts of situations. Instead, however, Lucius shifts beside him, delicately cradling the bouquet in one arm, and Kiran feels something cold pressed into the palm of his hand.

Looking down, he sees a glass jar, filled with dried herbs and corked.

“It is a tea blend for a more restful sleep,” Lucius explains, “I have heard that you have been having difficulties with insomnia and nightmares, so I created this.”

A slight frown adorns his face then. “Though…I do wish that you had come to me with this matter. As I have said before, you are free to come to me with any matter that troubles you. I do not mind listening or even perhaps, advising you on such dilemmas.”

Kiran’s cheek flushes red—embarrassment (and warmth) at Lucius’s concern as well as mortification at the contents of said “nightmares.”

Certainly, speaking of such matters to the subject of his dreams is a humiliating sort of affair.

(Niles’s words flash through his mind then. What is to say that Raven wouldn’t visit him with his axe in the middle of the night in such a hypothetical situation? Surely, his friend’s honor would matter to him.)

Lucius goes on to list the ingredients—passionflower, catnip, valerian, oatstraw, chamomile, and poppy—the ingredients’ ratio, and on each component’s benefits. He is rather chatty in these moments, but Kiran adores it—the manner in which his eyes twinkle and the enthusiasm evident despite the calmness of his voice.

“…and brew the tea at that temperature,” he finishes.

Kiran nods, his hands clasped gently around the jar. Despite the coolness of the glass, it warms his hands, warmness spreading from his fingertips to his heart.

“Thank you.” The flush of his cheeks could be reasonably attributed to the coolness of the morning, but Kiran knows the truth of it.

“It is no problem.” There is that smile again, shining always like an earthbound star.

Of course, all moments cannot last. He did not want to keep Lucius from his work. As stated before, Lucius is a person of routine in some ways, often busy and on a schedule. However, as he moves to stand and before he could utter his goodbye and apologies, he feels a hand grasp at his wrist, not enough to bruise but enough to keep him in place.

Even without looking back, Kiran knows it is Lucius. Certainly, it is an obvious sort of statement, but he also knows the feeling of the other man’s hands, lightly scarred palms and slender fingers.

Lucius seems surprised at his actions as well—it hadn’t been planned—but it quickly passes into his normal calm. He loosens his grip, though he doesn’t release his hold.

It is more pretense than anything. If Kiran so deigned, he could simply move, breaking the hold. Lucius is a stubborn man, but he is not someone who would willingly keep someone else in a situation against their will. Naturally, he doesn’t want to leave. There is only a sense of curiosity at Lucius’s actions. The sunrise had long since passed before their arrival.

“My apologies”—Lucius’s hand is warm on his wrist—“but do you want to stay with me here a bit longer? We can go spectate the tournament later as well; Lady Lyndis is participating. I understand if you have other obligations to attend to, but I wanted to, at the very least, ask.”

It is with a bit haste that he adds, “If it is not too presumptuous of me of course.”

Despite his reassuring words, there is a hint of tenseness in Lucius’s shoulders, a sign of nervousness.

It only leaves when Kiran sits, wordless as can be but meaning paradoxically clear.

* * *

Sadly, Lyn, donning Sol Katti rather than Mulagir, loses in the first round to Alm.

Certainly, it is a rather…unusual tournament, not only because of its focus on honoring devotion but due to its ruleset. Kiran isn’t quite sure how allowing pterippi, wyverns, and horses is in any way fair to the unmounted participants, but it apparently constituted an even playing field in this particular ruleset.

Though, it isn’t like a mount automatically guaranteed a win. That had been made abundantly clear when Faye had shot down Clair’s pterippus.

(It had been fine afterwards of course. Faye had not hit anything particularly vital, and they had healers versed in animal physiology on hand.)

Around them, the noise of the crowd dims as the final match of the day draws to a close. It had been a rather odd matchup—Roy and Karel. Certainly, Roy’s presence isn’t all too strange considering his relationship, but Karel is a bit out of place.

Though perhaps, that is merely another of Kiran’s sensibilities.

While the main purpose of the tournament is to celebrate bonds, it didn’t necessarily mean everyone enrolled in the tournament sought to honor love. Some simply wanted the tournament’s grand prize or to test their mettle against the kingdom’s warriors and other Heroes.

(Naturally, Anna, the tournament’s primary organizer, had not disclosed the contents of the prizes. In her words, she had wanted to build suspense for both the participants and for the audience. Of course, with her inclinations, she had also set up a betting booth. It certainly isn’t in the spirit of love, but the festival had to be funded somehow.)

There is a sigh beside him.

“I was certain Lady Lyndis would win.”

It had been a surprise for Kiran when Lucius had made his way to the betting booth. Why wouldn’t it have been? After all, Lucius is a holy man. Perhaps the religious order in Elibe runs differently.

Glancing up from his (now useless) betting slip, Lucius asks, “How did your bet go, Kiran?”

“Fairly well.”

And it had. He had only made a minimum bet, more on a slim hope that Jakob would win or at the very least, progress enough for him to collect, than any real certainty.

It would certainly help to replenish his funds somewhat if he took a high placing.

(Jakob is a rather strange choice to bet on, but the man’s loyalty is almost unparalleled—quite unlike his manners. He had seen the man work on the actual battlefield. Furthermore, he had been able to hear Corrin’s cheers from a few rows over. He isn’t one to settle for a low placement after that particular sort of encouragement.)

“Do you think I should place another bet tomorrow?”

That gets a small laugh from Kiran. It isn’t a particularly meanspirited laugh or aimed at Lucius’s misfortune, but Lucius’s voice is simply too earnest considering the subject matter.

“Don’t laugh.” It isn’t said with any particular bite. “But in all genuineness, do you think I should?”

On the way out, Lucius drops the crumpled slip into a trashcan. From the corner of his eye, Kiran catches a glance of yesterday’s florist. From his expression and the lack of flowers in his hands, today’s sales had gone exceedingly well. Around them, the crowd shuffles along towards the exit and back to mundanity.

It is a rather inane observation in all honesty, but it is what it is.

“If you want. I’m not the best at gauging these sorts of things.”

It is a wishy-washy sort of answer, but it is the truth. Even back in his world, he hadn’t been all too interested in his father’s sporting bets (or betting in general). Of course, there had been other reasons for his disinterest in his father’s hobbies, but even the idea of gambling hadn’t appealed to him. The idea of leaving his finances up to Lady Luck simply hadn’t been enticing; he felt no thrill, no adrenaline, at the idea of losing or winning—the idea of betting it all.

Perhaps he could have pretended, shown the minimum amount of interest. It could have become a point of reconciliation between them—a shared interest—but it hadn’t. Instead, they had drifted until they were mere strangers.

Lucius sighs once more. He hadn’t bet all too much, but the feeling of losing is never a good one.

At the very least, Anna could line her coffers now.

* * *

The Day of Devotion Festival passes quickly enough.

Though unfortunately, Jakob hadn’t secured a high enough placement for Kiran to claim his bet. It had been a rather gloomy sort of affair. Certainly, he hadn’t expected a guaranteed victory considering his minimum bet and his rather haphazard choice of contestant, but as mentioned before, losing is a poor feeling.

Even with his (relatively small) misfortune, Lucius had made off well despite his initial bad luck. His bet may not have taken first, but he had placed third, just enough for Lucius to claim his ticket.

The cheerfulness radiating from the man is certainly enough to dull the edge of losing.

Moreover, they had spent a majority of the festival together. Perhaps it shouldn’t brighten his heart as much as it does, but even the memories, as recent as they are, bring a smile. It hadn’t even been anything particularly extraordinary.

Throughout the town, red paper lanterns been strung, replacing the fabric and clotheslines of last week. Led by their ostlers, horses—manes and horse tails braided with flowers—paraded through the streets. Beneath their hooves, rose petals adorned the ground. To the sides of the streets, cheerful children—their wicker baskets laid with plucked wildflowers for the particularly tardy—moved about, weaving inbetween both couples and the unlucky unaccompanied.

Alongside the fragrance of flowers, the smell of freshly baked goods and roasted meat permeated the air. Alongside the children, there was the occasional food cart set up, counters stocked with dried fruit pudding—festive red slices of strawberry and miniature mounds of raspberry—blancmange, sugar sculpted pterippi, and a number of other goods. Some carried primarily sweets and others, savory dishes such as minced meat pies—stuffing ranging from the more common beef and fatty pork to the gamey pigeon and expensive rabbit—mortreux, rissoles, bath chaps, and sheep’s trotters. On the vendors themselves, they ranged from eatery workers to home cooks to hucksters, all rather different but all eager to make a few extra coins.

In the marketplace, flowers—red rosy roses, coral colored carnations, and baby blue begonias—festooned the storefront displays and atop the merchandise tables. They sat beneath cloth garbed mannequins, around the produce crates, and upon the restaurant sidewalk signs.

Of course, the festival itself had been spectacular, certainly different from the drabness and mundanity of Watersmeet, but his time with Lucius had not been objectively unique. They had strolled around the festival, talking and admiring the decorations and attractions, and watched the tournament’s proceedings.

(Lucius had been particularly partial to the minced rabbit pies—browned meat, finely sliced leeks, chopped onion and garlic, and diced carrot wrapped snuggly in a firm crust. Butcher paper wrapped pie in hand, their conversations had been of a prattling nature, not that Kiran minded. It hadn’t mattered to Lucius either, not with the way he spoke, moving to whatever topic came to mind.

It hadn’t been all too different from their daily meetings. The only real variance had been the surroundings, open space over the enclosed stone of the infirmary.)

The experience hadn’t been anything that could be objectively called unique, but the memories warm his heart, nonetheless.

On his nights, the thrill of his phantoms had dimmed. Whether due to Lucius’s tea or because of their own growing boredom, they had let Kiran sleep. His nights had passed peacefully, without the presence of eccentricities, and the dark circles underneath his eyes had softened, now more akin to shoddily applied and sooty eyeshadow than to the mask of a raccoon.

It is an idyllic existence, a life—a reverie—more fit for modernity than for pseudo-medievality, and thus, it ends just as abruptly, like a butterfly caught unaware in a typhoon.

He had forgotten about Gunnthrá.

* * *

Their next meeting is not in the study, walls opaque and pristine like a wine glass in winter and civilized, but in a burning garden, wild and unkempt. In the distance, he sees the palace ablaze, high towers crumbling underneath the ravishing of flame and the teasing, curling smoke. Around him, the statues, bystanders defiant in their indifference, melt—stone and ice dripping onto the bare dirt. The hedges and trees fare no better, leaves and red berries burnt to cinders and outstretched limbs alight in an imitation of an effigy.

Overhead, slivers of the moon glance through the thick smoke, curious like night’s noblewoman as she peeks through her canopy and awaits her paramour. Her attendants are nowhere in sight, having hidden at the first sign of trouble.

On the heat itself, it eats at his skin, nipping and pinching like a particularly malevolent sprite. Like the snow, he feels their hands reach for him—phantom nails digging into still unmarked flesh.

His sweat dries on his skin, and his coat only accentuates the heat. Even disrobing the coat does nothing; the most the garment can do is act as a makeshift respirator.

It is not an ideal situation.

Perhaps if he had been someone else, he would move towards the palace. Certainly, that is where the epicenter of the commotion should be; it certainly would be the designated spot if it were a novel. However, with a few steps forward and towards the palace—six at most—the heat increases exponentially, and his eyes water from the heat, tears dissipating before they could fall.

It is not for a lack of curiosity.

Simply, he is not a resilient man, lacking in both gumption and sorcery. He certainly didn’t have the means to chill the surroundings.

The most he can do is stagger away—hunched and helpless as an elderly man without his cane—from the palace and towards the garden’s other exit. Each step pricks at his feet and through the heavy soles of his leather boots, akin to a witch’s pointing needles. It is a wonder how the leather hasn’t melted—skin to flesh to gray speckled bone.

It feels like eternity as he drags himself towards the garden’s entrance. Unlike the jeering silence of his previous visit, the world howls around him in frenzy of brimstone, smoke, and fire, a fiend’s imitation of Sodom and Gomorrah. The world drips around him—dizziness and splotches of white dribbling like candle wax.

He is mere feet away from the exit when he collapses, shaking knees first onto the scorched earth and weakening fingers scratching at hardened dirt. Even with his coat’s sleeves wrapped tightly around the lower half of his face, he can still smell Jeanne’s perfume—the stench of burning hawthorn mingled with mud and a hint of cooking flesh.

It feels like condemnation, punishment.

Certainly, even if he made it out of the garden, what would he do then? If the palace burned then so would the surroundings.

His hands grasp at filth and grime, trimmed nails unable to penetrate the hardened earth, as he attempts to crawl towards the exit. Even if it is a useless endeavor, it is an animal’s instinctive nature to strive forward towards continued existence—no matter the futility. The heat of the earth—hellfire—nips hungrily at his flesh, now upon its maw and tongue rather than dangling temptingly above.

It eats at the palms of his hands and through the fabric of his clothes.

It simply burns, neither pain nor sorrow present. In this moment, he is miniscule, neither human nor tactician, merely fuel for its hunger. His breath comes in shallow, harsh gulps through the fabric of his sleeves. Like a doctor’s leech, the cloth of his turtleneck sticks to his reddening skin.

There is no salvation for a sinner who knows, no last rites or white lilies upon a casket.

What he doesn’t expect is the feel of hands—human hands—upon his and the force of motion as he is pulled up and away from the beast’s jaws and forward.

He doesn’t expect her voice either—concern seeping through the cracks of her calmness.

“Go to Gnótthæð.”

\--

It is a dream; it is a dream; it is a dream.

Though perhaps, that isn’t entirely correct—it had been a nightmare in the truest sense of the word. It is damnation and ruin and scorn brought about under the gaze of the moon.

It wouldn’t have surprised him if he, having woken up, saw an imp—malevolently mischievous as they are—on his chest or watching from the windowsill. Certainly, he would have welcomed it; it would have made much more sense than the spontaneity. But, life is rather like that really; no one quite liked life’s surprises, but like a mother’s birthday gift, one could not quite return it.

He had woken up, heartbeat rapid and breath shallow and with moonlight streaming through the uncovered window. His blankets had been drenched in perspiration. Unlike his dream, the heat (or rather, the lack thereof) of the cool Askrian night had done nothing for his body’s natural functions.

It is been difficult to doze off again; his mind, unlike in the dream, is awake—keenly aware of the world around him and the near-silence of the night. Unlike the world of his mind, reality had not howled its sorrows to the moon.

Even minutes later, as his mind rationalized his thoughts, he could not shake the intensity and vividness of the heat and the terror that his dream had invoked.

Of course, he could guess the source; the vividness and focus of the dream had confirmed it.

Gunnthrá.

However, he couldn’t understand her reasoning for choosing such a setting. Surely, the study is an adequate enough place to deliver her message? At the very least, she didn’t have to include the heat and Hell-esque atmosphere.

It is a concerning place and spoke of a loss of control.

From what he could infer from her abilities, she needed him to sleep for their meetings to occur. It is a reasonable assumption that she would need to sleep as well to meet him. It made no rational amount of sense if she purposely chose that location. Whether asleep or awake, it is not a situation that one would drag others into willingly.

Furthermore, Gunnthrá’s worry is rather concerning considering her usual calm.

He isn’t quite sure of what to do. He could certainly listen to her demand and go to Gnótthæð, but else would await him there? He is not foolish enough to entirely believe Gunnthrá’s words. Certainly, the ally could be there, but misfortune often follows fortune.

His heart continues to pound in his chest, and it is difficult to close his eyes—reluctance born from his nightmare.

He will speak to Alfonse on the matter tomorrow morning. Alfonse is levelheaded; he would know how to proceed.

* * *

He doesn’t quite get to talk to Alfonse before the messenger arrives from Gnótthæð.

Though perhaps, “arrives” is too benign of a word to use.

The man had stumbled to the town’s gate before collapsing, much to the alarm of the on-duty guards. Afterwards, he had been rushed to the nearest doctor. While the castle’s infirmary held more experienced healers, the messenger had been in a particularly poor condition; it would have been much riskier to transport him to the castle than to a nearer location. Instead, some of the castle’s healers—Lucius, Genny, and Sakura—had been called to attend to the messenger. Alongside them, Alfonse and Anna had left, most likely to check up on the man once he woke up.

Kiran does not know the extent of the man’s injuries. He could only infer from the frown on Lucius’s face when he returned the day after. He couldn’t quite pry the words or an explanation from the man’s tongue either. Even in another world, the Hippocratic oath reigns supreme.

He couldn’t visit the man himself either. Anna had not disclosed the location of the man’s stay.

Though, like with Lucius’s frown, he can infer that the injuries are grievous.

For the next day, after everyone’s return to the castle, Anna declares their immediate expedition to Gnótthæð.

* * *

The four-day trip to Gnótthæð is a somber one, lacking in the cheer and ribbing of their previous excursions. The soldiers are silent and so are the Heroes. It is an infectious sort of quiet—an almost miasma—that pervades their company.

(This time, Lucius had stayed behind, intent on overseeing the messenger’s condition. Kiran doesn’t begrudge him of course, but his absence is rather noticeable.)

On the reasons for the trip itself, both Anna and Alfonse had been vague on the matter. Of course, everyone had understood the importance of the mission—the messenger’s wounds had sent a clear enough message, whether one had witnessed it in person or through rumor—but the reasoning itself is unknown for the part.

While Kiran understands the situation’s overall severity—a border breach is always serious no matter the country or world—he does not know the specifics of the situation: the enemy’s identity, their military prowess, and so forth.

One would have to be confident to invade Askr, especially with how upfront they are. There had been no poison, no regicide, no dissent sowed beforehand.

Kiran expects conflict as they close in on their destination. Certainly, he could hear the echoes of fighting from over the tree line.

As the sounds increase in intensity, Anna urges their horses into a gallop.

However, he had not expected the extent of Gnótthæð’s destruction.

* * *

The moment they cross the tree line and into the outskirts—the farming fields of Gnótthæð—the world becomes like a scene out of the Inferno. It is a land dominated by beast—men no longer fit to be called men—and appetite.

Like a young girl’s cast-off playset, the charred remains of buildings—toppled windmills, crushed granaries, punctured silos, and desecrated barns, animals long past slaughtered or escaped—and various articles litter the ground. In the fields themselves, fires raged, fueled by the stubble and animal carcasses, and half-used tools—farming hoes, rakes, and sickles—lay discarded around the flames.

They point upward towards the heavens, rib bones natural in their death yet inherently wrong to the human eyes.

On the smells themselves, Kiran couldn’t smell much outside of the fumes. Unlike the smoke of his dreams, Gnótthæð’s odor is putrid, more decaying flesh meshed with the smell of heated metal and bodily fluids rather than the distinctive aroma of hawthorn and mud. Certainly, last week’s dream had smelled of flesh, but it had been nowhere near Gnótthæð’s current stench.

Árvakr, to her credit, keeps a steady pace. After they had crossed the tree line, Anna had given an order for the backline to remain further behind and to head north towards the town. For those who had been in the front, they had been ordered to follow Anna and Alfonse as they hurried ahead of the group, towards the east and where, judging by the sounds, the invaders’ main forces are.

Kiran isn’t quite sure what merits such a maneuver held. It had been at least five days since Gnótthæð’s destruction; anyone who hadn’t fled yet would be most likely dead, whether due to invaders, the fires, or smoke inhalation.

But, Anna most likely had her reasons. She didn’t quite strike him as foolish or overconfident, Grima situation notwithstanding.

However, no matter her reasonings, conjecture would not aid him in his current situation.

The most he can do is look forward, away from the animal carcasses, and breath shallowly through his mouth and the fabric of his sleeve. His other hand keeps a firm hold on his horse’s reins. The smell is repulsive still, but it is the most he can do in his current situation.

(Thankfully, they had not encountered any human bodies yet; So far, the only carcasses are those of livestock, horses, and the occasional pet. Perhaps it is strange, but Kiran had yet to encounter—or rather, examine in close detail—any human corpses in his time in Zenith. He had seen death from afar—Anna often positioned him farther away from the skirmish areas whenever she could—but not up close. In scenarios where he couldn’t avoid conflict, he had always focused on escaping; there had been no time for pointless sightseeing.)

The ground crunches underneath Árvakr’s hooves as she strides forward. Kiran assumes it is from glass—the ground is too hard for that distinctive sound—but a quick glance downward only reveals ash and bits of grey-white shards, sizes varying.

After a few minutes, they reach the town. Despite their slim hopes, it had fared no better than the fields in the assault.

Like the fields, various items litter the ground: muddy clothes stripped from the clothesline in the rush of panic, shattered washing basins and barrels, and dropped, dented cast-iron. On the houses themselves, most of the doors hung ajar—flapping and waving for friends that would not return. On others, the doors had been torn off or kicked in, only gaping darkness visible in the uncovered doorways. Embedded into the sides of walls and roofs are arrows and the occasional weapon: hand axes, javelins, and even a broadsword.

The only positive that the town seemed to have over the fields is the lack of fire. The flames here had died down before their arrival.

Continuing forward in an ambling walk, they pass various other objects: a deflated piece of leather that was once presumably a ball, a torn dolly, a broken pitchfork, and so forth. The smell of rotting food—putrid produce, maggot-ridden meats and festering cheeses, and abandoned half-cooked meals, still in their pots—pervades the air. The heat had done nothing to aid in the smell; it had only accelerated the decomposition.

Kiran does his best to ignore it.

In his own world and here, he had read many tales of chivalry and fantasy, and a sizable number often went into these sorts of scenes—the scenery and background for the hero to see and then move on.

However, it is rather difference once one is actually confronted with it.

Jarring him from his thoughts is a light tap on his shoulder and a piece of cloth pressed against the knuckles of his rein-bearing hand.

Stopping his horse and looking down, Kiran makes out the image of a surgical mask. It is rather crude in some aspects compared to the ones from his world—patchwork scraps sown together instead of a mass-produced piece—but the fabric is thick and well-sown. Each stitch is professional, necessary. Unlike an amateur’s work, every thread served a purpose; there is no more and no less.

“Here. This will be better than your sleeve.” Merric’s voice is rather kind. Kiran, having been lost in his thoughts, had not noticed him pull up beside him until then.

Kiran doesn’t immediately take it. “What about you then? Do you have another one?”

He appreciates the other man’s gesture, but the smell is atrocious. Certainly, Merric would be bothered by it as well. He doesn’t quite feel right about taking it from him.

“Well, no, but I can manage.”—Merric, with his free hand, pulls his cloak up slightly, covering his nose and mouth, before tightening it—“See?”

Kiran isn’t quite convinced. While the cloth of Merric’s cloak is rather thick, it wouldn’t be able to block the smell out entirely. Kiran’s coat hadn’t been able to.

Merric pats Kiran’s hand again with the mask before speaking, “Take it. Really, it’s fine. I’m rather used to the smell honestly.”

“Used to it? We just got here.”

“Oh, I mean in the War of Shadows; we often came across villages like this. For me, it has only been about two months since its end, so the memories are still rather fresh.”

Merric shifts in his saddle and muses, “Well, actually, maybe seven? I have been here for five months after all. It is a bit strange to see everyone else so…old though. I mean, it has only been four years for them, but I look so…youthful next to them.”

He snaps out of his musings then. Their surroundings are not ideal for such thoughts after all.

“But really, take it. I don’t mind at all.”

Merric is insistent, and Kiran doesn’t think he can decline, both because of his persistence and his own declining resistance.

The mask fits rather well. While the faint scent of mint and spices couldn’t filter everything out, Kiran appreciates Merric’s thoughtfulness.

* * *

Devoid of residents and of town life, the place is rather eerie, especially with their current, smaller party. It lacked the comfort that larger numbers brought.

Due to the size of the town, they had split up. Cain, Abel, and a few of the other soldiers had gone to the western end of the town while Jaffar and Kagero had volunteered to check the northern districts. The latter party had consisted of only the two, but that was due more to their differences in professions than a scarcity of soldiers. Jaffar and Kagero simply worked better alone or in a smaller cell than in a large group because of their experience with assassination and spy work.

That left the eastern districts to Kiran’s group. The group is not as large as Cain and Abel’s group nor as small (and thus, as inconspicuous) as Jaffar’s and Kagero’s duet, but it made up for it in the number of Heroes. Alongside Merric, Kiran had brought along Reinhardt, Kaden, and Navarre.

Much like the southern part of town, the eastern end—the market district—fared no better in the assault.

Árvakr’s hooves sound upon the cracked cobblestone, fractures extending outward along the path, towards the market square, and converging around the fountain. Like much of the southern area, many of the buildings are in poor condition—smashed windowpanes, shattered doorways, and scattered bricks and wood planks.

Even without peering into the doorways, it is obvious that the stores had been ransacked. The store displays are primarily empty, save for a few tipped over mannequins, their clothes torn. Many of the display tables are overturned. Anything that could be carried away easily—jewelry, gemstones, small leatherworks, and so forth—had been already been pillaged by thieves, eager to exploit the disorder.

Passing the fountain, figurine disfigured and water murky, Kiran does his best to ignore the various festival decorations scattered about. Streamers and banners, once garish pinks and reds now grimy brown, lay strewn about.

As they continue through the eastern districts, the hope for survivors dims ever further. Perhaps, they had escaped in the initial chaos, but that seems like an unlikely possibility. The invaders, judging by the destruction of the fields, are keen on eliminating their resources. Certainly, they would not let anyone escape.

Though, it is the eastern district; there is a bit of hope left. Most sane and reasonable individuals would not make for the east—towards the borders and towards Askr’s eastern neighbors. It made much more sense to head west, inwards and towards Askr’s main forces, or perhaps even north. At the very least, the residents would be away from the main body of the conflict.

Furthermore, they had not discovered any bodies yet. Dried blood, yes. Actual human bodies, no.

The continue further into the eastern district. Despite moving farther away from the fields and the center of town, the odor does not lessen. Rather, it increases in intensity.

It is a rather strange sort of phenomena in all honestly. Certainly, the smell of rotting food and gathering insects is repugnant, but it should have been nowhere near as potent as it is now. Even Merric’s herb tinged mask couldn’t handle the stench entirely.

And from the furrow in Merric’s brow, he agrees.

Furthermore, despite the town’s rather useful location, the invaders had not claimed it as a base yet. It could attribute it to the Askrian soldiers still fighting, but still, it does not make sense. Gnótthæð is an eastern border town. While there would have a decent amount of patrols present during the attack, it would be nowhere near the amount stationed on the western border. For Askr, Embla is the primary threat that they guard against. With consideration to the destruction present, the invading force would have to be much larger than an ordinary bandit group—better equipped as well if the discarded weapons are any indication. Askrian soldiers, no matter how well trained, would not be able to withstand a full-fledged assault.

Finally, many of the town’s winding corridors and buildings would be useful, whether as chokepoints, lookouts, or as some other commodity. Gnótthæð is a risk worth taking.

It does not make sense in Kiran’s opinion.

What could explain the town’s vacantness? The repugnant odor? For that matter, where—as cynical as it is—are the bodies? It isn’t realistic to expect everyone to have escaped.

There are simply too many questions.

* * *

The answer is curiosity best left unpursued.

As they turn the corner on another desecrated street, the stench of decay overwhelms, and the scenery stills them—horses’ reins pulled to force a stop. With a faint tinge of nausea to accompany it, the distinctive taste of bile fills his mouth. It isn’t enough to induce vomiting—thankfully, there isn’t enough for that—but it burns his throat when he swallows it back down.

(He isn’t doing quite as badly as Kaden. While a Kitsune’s sense of smell is an asset in most situations, it is nothing short of a detriment in this one. Even with the mask covering his nose, Kiran could still smell the stench. He doesn’t even want to imagine what Kaden is experiencing.)

Though, the odor isn’t quite the worst aspect of the scene.

That particular title belongs to the mound of remains, piled directly in front of the ruins of the eastern gate. On the barricade itself, the gate and its banners lay in pieces—splinters of mahogany and tatters of once white cloth.

Kiran almost urges Árvakr forward for a closer inspection (morbid curiosity and all), until Reinhardt raises his hand, a signal to hold. Beside him, Navarre dismounts before placing a hand on the hilt of his blade.

“Come out now.”

He thinks Reinhardt is being overly cautious. In their few hours of searching, Kiran’s group had neither found another living human nor had they encountered any enemies. The other groups had not either; their flares had not gone up. For the most part, the conflict is primarily to the east, in the direction that Anna and Alfonse had gone.

(Certainly, Kiran could assume the worst-case scenario, but that isn’t quite like Anna or Alfonse. They aren’t foolhardy people who would blindly charge in.)

Kiran doesn’t expect a response, but to his surprise, a woman—footsteps inaudible like already fallen snow—appears from one of the nearby houses.

She is a rather pretty woman from what Kiran can see. A thick, matted cloak of off-white fur—most likely wolf considering the length and thickness of it—adorns her body. Her shoulders are broad, pauldrons Kiran assumes. With each step, her cloak sways, revealing bits of crystalline blue and glossy gold. Beneath her hood, tuffs of blonde hair frame a delicate face and cool eyes. A circlet, inlaid with a milky blue briolette, peeks from beneath her hood.

A spear—metallic head tinted blue and shaft white with decorative gilding spiraling—sits in her hand. It is a beautiful weapon, even to untrained eyes like Kiran, but its most remarkable feature is not its appearance. Rather, it is the air around it. Even with the relative heat of Gnótthæð, the air around the spear is visible, puffs of icy breath as if the spear itself was alive.

Despite the presumed heaviness of her spear and armor, her steps are light as she walks, stopping beside and in front of the pile before turning to face them. She doesn’t speak. She only tilts her head, questioning.

“Your work is too neat, and the location is strange. If you were worried about disease, you would not have chosen such an open location. At the very least, I would have expected you to dig a hole or to set the pyre as any soldier would. On a battlefield, most people would not waste time with this sort of endeavor—gathering bodies—until after the area is secured.”

Whether this explanation is for the woman or for himself, Kiran isn’t quite sure, but Reinhardt continues anyway.

“Furthermore, look at their garb”—he gestures towards the pile—“not an Askrian uniform in sight. The coloration and design of the armor are not right. It is quite different from your dress as well. If I am to presume, I would guess that they belong to the aggressors. It’s almost as if you wish to _lure_ more of them here—preying on the need for body retrieval.”

Surprisingly, the woman does not deny it. Her voice is rather youthful compared to the coldness in her eyes, but it is a pretty sort, like tinkling glass.

“Then, you would know that I am not an enemy. Why waste time and question me?”

“Because you are still an unknown factor with an unknown allegiance.”

She frowns, opening her mouth to reply, before tensing. She turns to face behind her, grip tightening on her weapon as she readies it.

There is the familiar sound of wingbeats before a wyvern appears, a dark shadow in the light of midday. Even with Kiran’s relatively scant knowledge on the species, the wyvern is massive, easily dwarfing most of the Askrian wyverns that he had seen in the stables. Perhaps it could even rival Michalis’s mount in size.

Its scales are a dark red, bordering on an ashy black. Its horns curl forward, keratin half-moons framing a reptilian snout and glaring eyes. A collar inlaid with three radiant gems—brilliant blue between two reds—adorns its neck.

As it lands, weight kicking up dust and debris, a woman dismounts, armored boots thumping as they hit the ground. She walks towards them, stopping right before the gate. Despite the sheer difference in numbers, her gait and gaze are calm, even and confident.

On her appearance, much like their other outsider, she is a rather tall individual. Cut into a bob, wavy green hair—the color of a spring field—frames a tan face, and soft orange bangs fall gently like autumn leaves. Adorning her hair are two golden decorations, skillfully crafted and reminiscent of dragon horns. Whether they are for vanity or for intimidation, Kiran isn’t quite sure. Dark feathers decorate her right shoulder and opposite to it is an emblem, etched with her country’s symbol. A cape flutters behind her, clipped to her outfit by the emblem.

Dressed in blacks and golds and red and combined with her height, she is a menacing woman, and this is only accentuated by how she carries her sword—unsheathed and resting upon her armored shoulder.

Her voice is soft, amicable when she speaks. It is warm, quite unlike the other stranger’s.

It is rather jarring considering their current situation.

Kiran could deduce what her allegiances are with a rather high likelihood of success. Her armor is masterfully crafted—too expensive for any mere bandit to purchase—and its color scheme matches those in the pile. Of course, he had considered the possibility of theft, but her mien spoke otherwise. It is too self-assured—too confident in warfare—to be a bandit’s bravado.

Any miniscule chance of this assault being a particularly vicious (and lucky) bandit raid had been extinguished with her appearance. Furthermore, Gunnthrá’s warnings resound in his mind.

Her words and the stranger’s current agitation do not bode well.

“Hello!” She waves with her free hand as she greets them. Like the warmth in her voice, it is jarring. It is an action more suitable for friends than for enemies.

At her greeting, the blonde woman tightens her grip on her spear, though the newcomer didn’t seem to be particularly worried at her actions.

She merely continues to speak. Behind her, her wyvern glares at them. It hasn’t moved from its landing spot, but from the way its claws clench into the dirt, it would be ready to sprint at them if it sensed even the slightest hint of malicious intent against its master.

“I am not here to fight”—she nods to her sword—“although, I do have insurance as you have most likely noticed. I hope you understand my situation.”

That is a rather confident (and unnecessarily blasé) statement considering her numbers (or lack thereof).

She continues, “I am here to retrieve my men’s talismans for burial rites. No fighting required hopefully.”

Not the bodies? It is a different tradition than what Kiran is used to—different than cremation and coffins. For the most part, even Askr buries their dead. In the occasions that they did not, as with decorated soldiers, they were sent off in boats aflame—earthbound stars twinkling brightly in the lonely expanse of the deep blue sea, as if to call to the gods from their lofty thrones, before extinguishing and sinking like a dying star.

Though, perhaps, as much as they attempted to mimic the grandeur, it isn’t as grand as a dying star. Unlike those celestial glories, humanity did not leave a last hurrah—a supernova burning radiantly. They merely left behind grief and aimless affection—memories that would burn brightly and wickedly as a candle flame until it diminished and dimmed and dissolved and departed into distant past.

There are no black holes or expelled material, recycled into new stars or planets. There is simply grief and then obscurity.

Her next statement is addressed to the woman. Despite her rather relaxed stance and the mildness of her tone, her eyes hold a seriousness, a refusal to accept rejection.

“As a warrior, surely, you must understand the importance of burial rites. Without the proper procedure, they will not be able to rest.”

The blonde woman does not speak. She only glares at her.

Unperturbed, she continues, “Then perhaps, I can appeal to your compassion? Or your sense of fairness?”

She shifts slightly, readjusting the heft of her sword. She doesn’t seem at all winded despite its size and weight. In the sunlight, it glints ominously, red shining like sea glass.

“When I have been able to, I have let your people go. When your allies retreat in a battle against my forces, I have my archers hold rather than fire on your stragglers. When we fought in your capital, I overlooked many of the women and children. When you confronted me then, I spared your life and that of your companions.”

Rather than placating the woman, it only causes her to snarl, movement jostling her cloak and revealing more of her armor.

With her movement, Kiran notices the bandages around her fingers, extending upward and underneath her armguards. It is a relatively fresh injury from the slight shaking of her hands. Before, he had assumed it had been anger—and he is half-right considering all things—but it is also pain that causes her shaking. Her tightening grip had only agitated her half-healed wounds.

Though, that isn’t the most interesting bit of information that he ascertains.

It is the charm—crafted into a six-pointed star—that swings at her waist.

It is much the same as the one that Gunnthrá dangles from her braid.

He could piece together the clues well enough.

But, how would one go about recruiting someone like her? She certainly seems more intent on evisceration than on peace. Kiran isn’t quite sure if she, in her current state, would even want to listen to him.

(In this moment, he wants to curse Gunnthrá and her vagueness, but in particular, he curses his own shortsightedness. “An ally.” How much use would that be now? He should have questioned more. It is his nature to. Certainly, his curiosity would have benefitted them then. But, he, lacking in patience, had been annoyed by her ambiguity—her porcelain smile—and the dreams’ lengths certainly hadn’t helped. As always, hindsight is often right.)

However, she doesn’t give him a chance to speak or ponder any further.

“Then why are they dead?” Her voice comes in a growl, animalistic and sharp.

The woman tilts her head slightly before replying. It is an almost condescending sort of motion, one akin to a parent’s disappointment in their child’s slowness.

“As I have said, I have allowed your people to escape when the situation allowed for it. Second chances rarely come in war—let alone a third one. I gave you the chance to run and never return—a rather generous opportunity considering your identity—and you decided to stand your ground alongside your squadron. You cannot expect me to have stood idly by and watch as you and your group slaughter my men. I acted as a commander should.”

Her tone keeps its mildness even as the blonde woman’s expression worsens.

“You expected me to choose between my nation and my life.”

“Correction, I had expected you to choose between your honor and their lives, and you chose.”

She shifts the sword once more, more idle habit than any real exhaustion.

“Do not shift the blame onto me. No matter your grief, it was your decision, not mine. If it was not a matter of pride, why did you not order your companions to flee? Even if they had chosen to stand with you, you would have at least given them a choice in the matter. Humans are prideful creatures; we do not bend to our desires until given choice—a fruit as it were. Even in fear, we act in accordance with others’ perceptions.”

She frowns, the first dent in her mild demeanor.

“Were you afraid of the possibility of abandonment—that your bond would not hold? Were you afraid that if given a choice, they would have abandoned you and fled to the far reaches of Zenith? Or perhaps, you were afraid of how their choice would have reflected on you as a general?”

Her questions are more rhetorical than anything else as she does not give time for the woman to reply.

“But back to the matter at hand, I only ask for the talismans, nothing else. I merely wish to ease the pain of their passing.”

The blond woman sneers, “Why not ask one of your men to retrieve it then? Are you not abandoning them right now? Surely, the conflict has not yet ended?”

“You would have immediately killed anyone I sent.”

It is a blunt, matter-of-fact statement.

“And you are exempt from this?”

“I am.” It is a statement said without a hint of irony or doubt, like a comment on today’s weather. “You are an excellent spearman, but you are young still. You lack the experience necessary to face me. Furthermore”—she nods to the woman’s spear—“you are especially inexperienced with Leiptr. A battle with me would mean your death.”

Even if the woman hadn’t meant it as such, it is an insulting declaration. Certainly, it has riled her up.

“Now, please, hand me the talismans. I do want any unnecessary bloodshed, Fjorm.”

The swordswoman extends her free hand, palm facing upwards.

And to answer her, Fjorm raises her spear once more. There is a slight shake in her hands. Whether due to anger or her injuries, Kiran isn’t quite sure.

Though, that isn’t the biggest of his concerns at the moment; it certainly is up there, however.

Fjorm.

That explains Gunnthrá’s franticness and Fjorm’s garb. However, it—the knowledge of her identity—still didn’t quite help him in the matter of recruitment. What would he say to her, especially in her current state? Fjorm didn’t seem like a particularly trusting person, or at the very least, her anger overrode her reason. Furthermore, what could he say to convince her of his trustworthiness?

Gunnthrá had not given him much to work with. Her name and her relation to Fjorm? Anyone could find out that bit of information from a passing merchant. Her childhood interest in the militia? A likely conjecture based on her status as the second princess and Nifl’s culture. A princess in her situation would have to hold a keen interest to join; her family would not have forced her to.

Kiran wracks his brain for an idea. What could he tell her?

He doesn’t have much time either as the woman lowers her hand, obviously disappointed. Her grip on her sword tightens as she brings it forward in one smooth motion and moves into a fighting stance. The wyvern behind her roars, its claws digging in further as it prepares its sprint.

“Disappointing.”

He has to speak now. With Fjorm’s injuries, he couldn’t count on her victory. Furthermore, her opponent’s confidence is disconcerting.

(They are here as well, but the problem of the matter lay in the woman’s unknown abilities and the relative narrowness of the street. Navarre is an excellent swordsman, but skirmishes often turn into confusion. Merric and Reinhardt both relied heavily on their magic, and in a location as narrow and debris-filled as this, it wouldn’t surprise him if their magic accidently hit one of their more melee-inclined allies. Reinhardt had not brought Meisterschwert as well, further limiting his options. On Kaden, the smell would hinder his abilities somewhat, disorient him. Furthermore, the size of his transformed state would hinder his movement in such a location. Their horses also posed a problem. In a skirmish, there is no guarantee that they would not be spooked into running or lashing out or hurt. This is not to mention Kiran’s own safety. He is quite sure that the woman will target him if they interfere.)

His voice is shaky as he calls out Fjorm’s name, just as she is about to lunge towards the woman.

Thankfully, both Fjorm and the woman stop. Fjorm’s gaze holds both curiosity and impatience as she looks at him. On the woman, she is much the same sans impatience. Though perhaps, that shouldn’t be surprising; she hadn’t been keen on a fight in the first place. She had only wanted the amulets.

A chance to prolong a conflict would be rather beneficial for her.

He starts off as best as he can, no matter how lacking it is.

“Your sister, Gunnthrá, sent me here. She spoke to me in her study in a dream.”

He babbles on—describing the study and the gardens and Gunnthrá’s own mien, her indistinctness in truthfulness and bits and pieces of what she had told him. Of course, he leaves out the pieces about their clairvoyance’s true nature and the court intrigue. While he wants to convince Fjorm, he certainly didn’t want the other woman to know everything.

Some of his words and descriptions are inane. Would Fjorm know about the appearance of Gunnthrá’s study? Or had that room merely been something that she had crafted from her imagination, a temporary meeting place in their dreams?

“…and thus, she sent me here to retrieve you.”

It isn’t a complete lie. Gunnthrá had sent them to Gnótthæð in pursuit of a future ally. She simply hadn’t told them _what_ it would entail. Her words are different, but the meaning is the same.

Fjorm is contemplative as she stares at him, spear lowered. Her eyes still held the flame of anger, but it had dimmed in favor of thought.

He adds on, more of an afterthought than anything, “Perhaps, you can return the talismans as well? You can always pursue her another day when your injuries have healed.”

It is a bold statement considering the subject of his words is mere feet away, but he needs to convince her.

A tense silence enfolds them. It feels like hours, but in reality, no more than a few minutes—three at most—have passed.

Finally, Fjorm turns to the other woman and reaches into her cloak before pulling out a set of amulets. A makeshift hook tied through the chains keeps them together. Crafted from a variety of colorful metals into various shapes and etched with symbols—family crests perhaps—they bob in the air from their chains like fishing lures upon a lake’s surface.

She tosses them to the other woman, and she catches them deftly before pocketing them.

“My thanks.” She nods and then clicks her tongue. With her signal, her wyvern inches forward, wary. When the wyvern reaches her, she boards it immediately. Kiran expects her to fly off then. The woman had seemed more intent on collecting those amulets than on stirring up trouble. At the very least, she is less bloodthirsty than Veronica.

Instead, however, she turns her head to face him.

“I will give you the same warning as I did to the people of Nifl—flee before we arrive. My colleagues will not be as merciful.”

It is a simple statement but a threat, nonetheless.

With that, she goads her wyvern, dust and ash swirling as the beast’s powerful wings propel it upwards and away.

Both Reinhardt and Merric aim their magic upon her of course—Dire Thunder’s lighting crackles and Excalibur’s crescent wind cleaves through the air—but she easily weaves inbetween their spells. More than likely, she had expected this sort of response, and had planned her course in advance.

The dark red of her wyvern becomes smaller as she flies further away until it disappears completely in the distance, a blot of blood upon a stilling ocean.

* * *

Thankfully, Askr’s victory flare comes soon after, a miniature, momentary sun upon a cobalt sky.

There is a sense of relief as they arrive at their meeting spot, a shared sentiment and gratitude from both the beasts and from the men. Various crates—cracked open for their provisions—are scattered about. To the side, a few of the soldiers check the horses for injuries. Some rub balms into their sore muscles, and others are further along in the procedure, already wrapping their wounds in linen strips. In one case, the horse—a white gelding—has its horseshoes replaced.

Beside it, stood a few other horses, totaling seven. Notably, a horse, hair blanched red from the earthen dust, a loudly wheezing mare, pallid (as much as a horse could be) and worn from the day’s affairs, and another gelding with a pristine coat of inky black, conspicuous because of its lack of injuries.

Certainly, there are more, here and elsewhere, but those are the ones that catch his attention when he passes.

Kiran jolts when he feels a friendly slap on his back—Dvalinn’s handiwork. The other man seems rather pleased as he passes by, unsurprising considering how the groups had been split up. While Dvalinn had been assigned to Kiran’s group beforehand, the rest of his normal entourage had been given to Alfonse and Anna. As a senior member, it is unsurprising that he would be prone to worry, especially for his friends.

He had most likely seen his fair share of combat and casualties.

Thankfully, there had not been many losses when it came to the members of their party. While the invaders had been aggressive, they had also been rather far from their own supply lines; Nifl is a difficult terrain to transport goods across—both by air and by land.

There isn’t much more time to ponder, however, as he feels Anna pull him towards the commander’s tent and towards the war table.

(Though, it isn’t much of a war table really. Unlike the gnarled stump of his first meeting or the clean sheen of polished wood of the ones thereafter, their current war table is dirty, much more so, and makeshift—four miniature barrels huddled together with a plank of wood, more than likely the remains of some unfortunate soul’s entranceway or perhaps a torn-off wardrobe door, placed atop.

There is no mystique or fantasy to it, neither imagined elven charm nor chivalric glory. It certainly couldn’t compare to the Round Table or even to a pixie’s mushroom cap.)

The air is unpleasant, solemn and much too like the air of a parlor, welcoming doors freshly open and awaiting the carriage, still meandering at the fields of gazing grain.

Standing around the makeshift table and surrounded by the others—the Order’s leaders, the other tacticians, and Fjorm—it certainly felt much the same, minus the tears and the floral sprays. There is the same awkwardness, the same deathly quiet—much like a communion of kin—and the same alertness, the wait for someone to speak and pierce the waking stillness.

Or perhaps that is simply another of his imaginings, a specter preying on the weakness and fragility of the shaken soul.

When Anna speaks, voice even and assured, a frenzy of words follows, not solely from her but from the near-entirety of the gathering. When one train of thought ends, another swiftly follows, notable in its firmness, clear cacophony, neither interrupting nor finalizing in its reason and the reasons of others. Opinions concurred and clashed; beliefs whistled like December’s morning winds, startling the air and mingling with the busy world outside of their clothed chamber.

Kiran remains quiet, remnants of the previous hours still harrowing his soul like a particularly adamant friar’s lantern. He makes an attempt to pay attention of course, but his mind wanders, lost in its own concerns.

However, he certainly isn’t the only one disinclined towards speech. Fjorm remains quiet, face impassive as the glass lakes of her homeland yet eyes darting and alert as any fleeing rabbit’s.

She observes rather than speaking, perhaps, in part, due to her status as a newcomer and her own innate wariness.

(It would be a lie to state that Askrians trusted her entirely. Her presence and foreignness had been obvious from the moment she stepped into camp. Her hair is too light, wispy in appearance and coloration quite unlike the sandy hues of Sharena’s tresses, and her features too different: eyes shaped like almonds, nose curved downward like a hawk’s beak, and shoulders naturally broad even without consideration for her pauldrons. Certainly, one or two features could be constituted to a mixing of blood, but altogether, it denoted an outsider.

Despite the Askrian penchant for imported goods, frequent conflict with Embla had made them wary of foreigners. Certainly, it is a conundrum of sorts, a desire for foreign made items meshed with a fear of invasion and subterfuge. Her presence isn’t particularly helped by the recent turn of recent events either.)

After a few more minutes of near-arguments, borne not out of perceived superiority but of a clash between both genius and experience, Anna turns not to Kiran but to Fjorm.

“Your thoughts?”

Despite the simplicity of her words, Anna’s tone conveys a hidden meaning, one that Kiran only catches because of his time with Robin. She isn’t quite as sarcastic as he could be, but the glint of silver wreathed upon her words, akin to a serpent’s whisper, glimmers.

Fjorm quickly dispels her maneuverings, however.

Her eyes hold a chill as she holds her head high, gold circlet glinting in the lantern light. Even in her current situation, her status as a noble is evident. It is in her stance, in that peculiar pride that only those birthed into nobility seemed to carry.

“My loyalties lie with you and your group, so long as our objectives remain similar.”

There is no bow nor longwinded play of words, only assurance in her own beliefs and her own worth as an asset. There is no doubt.

“And what might those objectives be?”

It is a bit brazen of a question though Anna didn’t seem at all perturbed by Fjorm’s confidence. They had not talked about inducting her into the group, temporarily or otherwise; at most, they had only spoken a few quick words about her on the way to the meeting, just enough to clarify on her presence.

Though perhaps, Anna had expected her to answer as such; she had been the one to invite her to their conference after all.

(Kiran could presume that much. Alfonse isn’t the sort to blindly invite strangers into the Order’s tactical conferences, and Fjorm couldn’t have walked in by herself. The soldiers would have stopped her immediately.)

“The destruction of Múspell’s forces and the defense of Askr.”

Múspell. That had been the metaphorical elephant in the room. Certainly, he had an inkling, what with Fjorm’s appearance and the appearance of the lady general, but he had not been one-hundred percent certain before Fjorm’s words.

(He had told Anna of course, but his words are, understandably, not enough. In matters such as warfare, words are almost never enough, not if one wanted to avoid misunderstandings and tactical miscalculations. Before their meeting had begun, she had sent a few scouts back to the battlefield and towards the town—both an attempt to gather samples of their armor and weaponry and an attempt to locate survivors.)

The conversation drifts back to more pressing matters then. Anna does not press further into Fjorm’s affairs. Perhaps she wants to—Kiran isn’t privy to the deeper workings of her mind—but she doesn’t, not right now. Kiran can feel Alfonse tense beside him, but he does not voice his concerns on Fjorm. He doesn’t quite trust her, but he also doesn’t quite want to make a scene here.

Alfonse is prone to pushing the boundaries when it comes to Anna’s rules and to questioning, but he does not want to put forth a divided front now nor does he want to feed into the suspicion.

(Alfonse had voiced his worries—some would call it paranoia—once about the Order. While there is a fear of spies, his greatest concern is about rumors. Soldiers were people, people who worried about their own safety and the safety of loved ones. Furthermore, people are often curious things, prone to both exaggeration and to mishearing. Thus, it spoke to reason that some would be inclined towards eavesdropping. It is one thing to question Anna when they were in a more private setting and another to question her here, especially with the gasoline doused by Múspell. Rumors, no matter how small the mustard seed, had to start somewhere.

It would be best not to ignite them.)

And thus, the discussion continues. Though, they don’t quite come to a coherent and agreed upon plan of action.

Kiran contributes when he can of course, but it doesn’t amount to much. There simply isn’t enough information even with Fjorm present.

Later that day, Kiran falls asleep, dreams heralded by flame and the proclamation of trumpets.

* * *

They leave for the Order’s headquarters two days later, forces smaller than when they arrived.

Under Anna’s orders, they had left behind a small group of soldiers and a select few Heroes—Katarina, Clarisse, Legion, and Roderick—to aid and protect the remaining border guards. The choice of Heroes is rather “unconventional” (in one sense of the word) considering their shared past, but it is both a risk and a boon. Katarina would be able to understand their strengths and weaknesses and plan accordingly.

On the burials, they had been a quick affair, driven by both human reverence and by human necessity. Transportation would not have been practical, not with the heat of warfare and unnatural summer bearing down nor with their current vehicles; they primarily had supply carts after all.

The smell would have been atrocious, and pestilence would come forth, skeletal visage summoned by sloppy sentimentality.

(On the day after their meeting, he had found Alfonse sitting by the cinders of the campfire, quill scribbling upon a parchment backed by a book. The book is useless of course; even from where he stood, the binding and pages are ashy, desecrated and trampled upon. At most, this is its only purpose now, a backing upon which to write.

It is a bit of an impractical state of affairs. Certainly, Alfonse could have chosen a better location to write at, one that required less concentration for readable script, but that is another of Alfonse’s quirks. On some matters, he simply chose the more impractical method.

His quill dips into the ink pot precariously perched upon the log beside him. A set of letters, dried and awaiting his seal, sits beside him.

Or perhaps, it is simply a bizarre form of self-punishment, a guilt born from a prince’s inability to fulfill his role and the remorse of the living.

Whatever the reason, Alfonse does not acknowledge him as he passes. His work took precedence.)

The trip back is rather uneventful in all honesty. The weather is mild, neither overly cold nor overly hot. The sun shines, unbridled by cumulus and cirrus, and the air hums with the hymn of birdsong and the affright of wildlife: bushy-tailed squirrels, black-marked hares, and scuttling insects.

It is idyllic, unfitting, but it is as it is.

* * *

Arriving at the castle, Anna and Alfonse are a blur of motion: informing Sharena, organizing troops, and a plethora of other activities. It leaves Kiran with a bit of free time at least until the next meeting. He wanders the castle, too antsy for an afternoon nap and too scattered to lose himself in a novel or to paint.

He had visited the infirmary of course, but to his disappointment, Lucius had not been there, still busy tending to the messenger.

(Sakura had helpfully informed him that he would be back in roughly two hours. Lucius isn’t one to rush when it comes to his art, but he certainly couldn’t stay all day. Magic could only do so much, and the rest must be left up to time.)

Walking through the hallways, he returns the greetings of passing servants and Heroes, but, for the most part, he remains in silence. He certainly couldn’t expect near-constant chatter or a greeting from everyone. Everyone had their own duties to attend to. It would be unrealistic to expect otherwise.

Moving from hallway to hallway and from floor to floor, he does his best to ignore his thoughts. Indeed, he had seen other similar scenes such as the one at Gnótthæð during his time with the Order and even before then, they hold a familiar countenance, akin to déjà vu, because of history’s records.

The separation of the North and the South, the war to end all wars, and several other conflicts, named or otherwise.

He has seen the pictures before, but they had always been a far-off thing, akin to a colorful billboard advertisement one saw once and then forgot about soon after. There had been no pressure; it had simply been history.

On his time in Zenith, everything had simply been apart of something else—a world away and written into the fabric of stories. One expected the protagonist to persevere and overcome. Outside of perhaps his encounter with Veronica, everything was as it should be.

However, Gnótthæð is harder to rationalize away. Certainly, one should expect hardship in these sorts of tales. However, it lingers like incense still—frankincense and myrrh and lavender—and bottled in gold. Perhaps it is due to the location of the attack, Askr’s eastern front and from an unexpected enemy, or perhaps it is due to the particular combination—hellfire and burning flesh and rancid decay—that bothers him.

While Veronica’s Heroes had been tasked with the Order’s destruction, most had not been inclined towards the death of their own world’s people. Destruction had been kept to a minimum, caution rather than scorched earth.

Or perhaps further still, it is due to his conversations with Lucius.

Whatever the reason, he simply could not forget as he had before, and thus, he simply continues walking.

It is marginally easier to distract himself this way.

* * *

“May I speak with you?”

Fjorm’s voice unsettles him in the stillness of the hallways, and he stops. He had seen her beforehand of course, but he had not expected her to speak. After all, she rarely spoke, often only speaking when she needed something or if someone posed a question.

She isn’t all too chatty really; it isn’t all too surprising considering her current situation, but it makes her no less intimidating.

At his expectant gaze, Fjorm clarifies, “Alone. I wish to speak to you alone.”

At her clarification, he feels a sense of nervousness, and his gaze drifts to the spear strapped to her back. While he had spoken with her before, this is an almost entirely different situation. There is no common enemy nor capable allies in close proximity.

Even with the contact he had with her sister, Fjorm herself is still a stranger.

“I will not harm you if that is your concern”—a tint of amusement shades her words—“I would be unable to escape afterwards. It would be a foolish endeavor, no?”

Kiran isn’t quite sure how reassuring her words actually are, but it, at the very least, is an attempt at humor. Though, her humor is rather suspect.

He nods, and she leads the way to an empty room.

(Perhaps it is a bit unwise, but he has a feeling that she would not leave him alone otherwise. Fjorm is rather insistent. Her actions concerning Múspell proved as much.)

There is a sense of déjà vu as they take their respective seats. The setting is different, but there is the same sense of expectation. It should be unsurprising, he thinks. Fjorm and Gunnthrá are related after all.

Shifting in her chair, Fjorm leans forward, chin resting upon the top of her knuckles. It is a rather casual pose, but it gives him a rather decent view with which to assess her.

Her hair is feathery, less tangled and less matted with sweat and blood than when they originally met, and shorn into an uneven bob—a quick fix job rather than something intentional. On her armor and cloak, they lack the dirtiness of their first meeting, having been cleaned shortly after Múspell’s withdrawal. However, an odor—lemongrass and dirt and something a bit more unidentifiable—lingers upon her fair skin and fur cloak, pelt moderately less tangled but still an off-white and always likely to stay as such.

Even with the assistance of bar soap and perhaps a disguise, no one would be able to mistake her as a civilian. There is simply a certain glint to her eyes, blue silk hiding steel.

Besides her, her weapon lies on the table. Even without physical contact, a visible chill emanates from it.

He feels her eyes on him. As much as he had watched her, she had done the same.

She speaks then.

“Summoner, have you’ve…”

She pauses, assessing her words, before continuing.

“…heard from my sister?”

There is an almost childlike worry to her voice, an uncertainty unbefitting of her previous mien. Though much like the initial déjà vu, this should be expected as well. Gunnthrá is her sister after all. It is normal to worry about one’s siblings.

(Kiran finds it an unrelatable affair emotionally. He is an only child, and he had not had many friends as a child, no one he could grow close to as a brother in all but blood. He has his parents of course, and they do wander into his conscience—more so than normality demands—but it isn’t quite the same he thinks. There is a sense of almost-yearning, but whether it arose from societal routine, nostalgia, or from a genuine love remains to be seen.)

“I’m sorry. I haven’t. I can’t contact her either; she’s the one who chooses when to appear.”

The apology isn’t really necessary, but how else should he have started it off? There is a sense of uneasiness, stemming from their status as strangers, pervading the air and to leave it off seems too stilted, too formal, for the topic of conversation.

“Oh.”

A flash of disappointment enters her eyes.

“Then…what has she said about me? You had mentioned her when we met.”

Her gaze is expectant, almost hopeful even.

There is an almost-shame when he speaks though there shouldn’t be. He hadn’t been the one to broach the topic—then or now.

“Ah, she hasn’t said much more than what I’ve told you. Though, she did tell me a bit about your family’s situation.”

“Not much of course,” he adds hastily upon seeing Fjorm frown, “She mostly just spoke on Nifl’s succession troubles and how you wanted to be a soldier. She sounded proud of you.”

However, rather than soothing Fjorm, his words only agitate her, and her frown deepens.

“I should have expected as much. She has always been self-assured.”

Fjorm stands then, picking up her spear as she does.

“Thank you for your time, Summoner.”

Even with the slight nod of her chin, it is a stilted sort of gratitude.

There isn’t time to question her or to quench his curiosity as Fjorm leaves immediately afterwards.

It is rather strange of her, and his curiosity burns at her sudden shift in mood. Hadn’t she been worried about Gunnthrá just mere moments before?

It is entirely bizarre, but there is not much that he could do about it.

Fjorm simply doesn’t seem like a person who would open up easily, let alone to a stranger. Furthermore, he had more pressing matters to worry about than Fjorm’s oddness. As curious as it makes him, her troubles are irrelevant at the moment. Finally, in Fjorm’s current state, she would most likely ignore his advances.

In this moment, the best option would be simply to wait and to approach her later when her mood shifts to something more favorable.

* * *

There is a knock on the door just as he slips the canvas back under his bed.

(The canvas is still blank, unsullied by the wine of originality and immaculate in its paleness. It is a failure of intellectual conception, devoid of the intertwining of skill and genius. It is a shame, a failing marred by human inadequacy and mind’s mockery.)

He makes a noise of acknowledge as he pushes the paint case underneath, careful to avoid scuffing the flooring or canvas, before finally moving towards the door.

He expects Anna or perhaps Alfonse or even Lucius, as unlikely as that possibility is.

(His heart thumps painfully at that thought, an echo of delusion and desire ticking underneath his shabby coat like a hurried rabbit’s watch. He had seen the other man earlier, worn and exhausted and simply _older_. They had spoken, but the levity had not lasted, exhaustion had soon overtook the other man before he excused himself, apologetic.

Thirty-five or perhaps thirty-six, if one considered the passage of time, is not all too old in his world, but perhaps, it is a near-lifetime here. War marches like innocence’s toy soldiers and beats his drums merrily to an unseen tune.)

Opening the door, he finds all three of conjectures mistaken. Rather than anyone that he is familiar with, it is a child who stands before him.

Dark curls surround a freckled face, slim yet still in the process of shedding the last vestiges of youth, and brown eyes, charmingly boyish in their simplicity and mischievousness, twinkle in their own private jest. A bandage sticks to the child’s left cheek, accentuating the image of adolescence. A plain servant’s garb decorates him.

Though, what draws Kiran’s eyes the most is the package in his hands.

“Hello!”

His greeting is rather informal, but that could be attributed to his youthfulness and his upbringing. Certainly, Kiran could hear how his voice cracks, pitch uneven and still settling like dust upon a windowsill.

The boy continues, “Ms. Anna asked me to bring you this.”

“At this hour?”

At his words, the boy’s expression turns sheepish.

“She asked me earlier. I just…forgot to do it.”

He extends his arms then, most likely an attempt to divert attention away from his blunder.

Holding the package in hand, Kiran unfolds it.

A coat.

Much like his current garment, gold accents adorn the hems of the coat’s sleeves and bottom, crisscrossing like molten rivers upon a snowbank. However, despite its similar appearance, the texture itself is more akin to leather than cotton or silk. When he moves to examine the inside, Kiran finds that the coat is insulated with a thick dark down.

He still couldn’t quite discern the breeds of what the materials originated from, but even without that particular bit of knowledge, it is abundantly apparent that the coat is of a fine quality, even if it weighed a tad heavier.

“Thank you.”

Even if the boy had been late, it is only proper to offer gratitude.

The boy nods in return, satisfied, before bidding Kiran a hasty goodbye. It isn’t particularly formal, but Kiran doesn’t expect much else; his mannerisms had been apparent from the moment he arrived.

He doesn’t mind of course, but it is rather dissimilar from the formality that he has come to expect. Certainly, there are people who disregard normal etiquette—Sharena comes to mind as a prime example—but for the most part, everyone seemed to value appearances here. At least, in comparison to his world.

After a few moments, Kiran locks the door behind him and moves towards the wardrobe.

Despite his year in Askr, the wardrobe is rather empty, and the door creaks as he opens it. Only a few spare shirts and trousers hang, wood noticeably visible in-between the cream-colored cloths.

* * *

They leave for Nifl three days after Kiran receives his new coat. It is a rather hasty departure considering the circumstances—Kiran hadn’t even been informed of the decision until a day before—but Anna is insistent on it.

It is a bit of a risky decision considering the lack of information they have on Múspell, but there are not many other choices. Askr would be unable to withstand a war with both Embla and Múspell. Additionally, their northern and southern borders are another concern; there is no guarantee that another nation would not attempt a pragmatic invasion.

(Anna had informed the king through the Order’s emergency courier—Feh—and his reply had been rather quick, delivered by a large eagle with bronze-tipped claws and fearsomely intelligent eyes. Kiran had not personally read the reply, but Anna had summarized well enough. It had simply been a call to war.)

Their chosen group is rather small as well. It doesn’t quite sit well with Kiran, not with their current goal or Múspell’s apparent strength, but much like with their departure time, Anna insists.

He had asked naturally, and she had explained it as a necessity of the campaign. While a larger group would offer more protection, they would be easier to spot. Furthermore, the strain on supplies—the outfitting of soldiers, food, transportation, and a plethora of other issues—would be tremendous. Askr certainly couldn’t run a supply line through Nifl either; the weather would not allow for it.

Askrian forces were simply not used to the temperatures that such a task would impose. They could not depend on the locales for such matters as well. From the maps that Kiran has studied, the distance between Nifl’s towns and cities is immense, at least in comparison to Askr’s.

This is not to mention Múspell’s influence. They would most likely not receive any substantial aid from the locals. Fear is a motivator and a deterrent. Certainly, the majority of the remaining people of Nifl would not want to live under Múspell’s rule, but as always, fear is a heavy-handed motivator; not everyone would want to be a hero. Sometimes, people simply only want to live, to _yearn_ for messiah-given salvation.

Kiran doesn’t particularly agree with the latter sentiment—it is too cynical in his opinion—but that had been Robin’s assessment on the matter.

(Ever since their conversation on his nature, Robin had become surprisingly more open during their tutoring sessions, by his standards anyway. He laughs, jests in a way he normally wouldn’t—much more meanspirited than a Cheshire Cat would be willing. However, there is a strange sort of warmth in his eyes in comparison to the façade of before. There is a genuineness that exists, unconcealed by the dullness of practical kindness. He speaks as a serpent would still, but it is dulled by the complacency and chains of idyllic love.)

On the party themselves, their chosen group of Heroes totals forty, with Kiran included. On their more “mundane” soldiers, Anna had deigned to bring only a little over six hundred. It isn’t a strange decision overall; Heroes were, by and far, much more skilled than the average soldier. Furthermore, Nifl’s climate and their own lack of supply lines encourage smaller groups.

(Anna had contacted Askr’s king naturally; the Order’s veteran bird messengers were surprisingly quick. Despite the Order’s near-autonomy in other matters, engagement in warfare is a tricky matter. Even with Múspell’s apparent aggression and initial invasion, they could not simply engage without thought. They could defend naturally—their actions at Gnótthæð demonstrates that—but striking is another matter.

Diplomacy disputes—both with the aggressors and with bordering kingdoms eager to prey upon the chaos—supply and storage issues, the will of the people.

The list of potential hazards and setbacks simply went on and on. The Askrian people have engaged in near-constant warfare with Embla in the western reaches; a dispute on the eastern borders would not raise the people’s spirits.

However, thankfully, the king had decided to allow Anna’s request—the acquirement of additional soldiers from the kingdom’s main forces and permission to venture into Nifl and then Múspell itself. Under normal circumstances, it would be a foolish decision; however, the presence of Heroes offset the risks.

Moreover, what other choice did they have? An assault from both the western and eastern fronts would spell calamity for Askr. While Askr could supply their own sustenance and goods for a few months to even a year perhaps, constant assault would only drive down the morale. Additionally, the northern and southern fronts would become a concerns eventually. Despite the faces of benignity that Askr’s neighbors portray, they were not allies, bonded by pragmatism or blood.)

Though, they could not bring many of the mounted or more heavily armored Heroes. Askr did not have access to Nifl’s particular breed of wyverns, and even if they were to have such resources, many of their aerial-inclined Heroes preferred pterippi. On the pterippi themselves, many of them fared better than their scaled counterparts in cold weather due to their warm-blooded nature; however, Nifl’s climate is brutal. The maintenance required for a large gathering of pterippi would be unreasonable; the benefits of aerial surveillance and aerial scouting are miniscule in comparison to the costs.

Maneketes are not an option either. While all of them are in possession of a human form, their draconian forms served as a liability—both because of their inability to regulate body heat in chillier climates and their conspicuousness. Naturally, their raw power would be a great asset in a fight, but that would not matter if their party were to be surrounded. Nifl is as much of a battle of power as it is of attrition.

Furthermore, the climate once again inhibited their full potential; they would only be able to fight at maximum power in short, violent bursts before the cold dulled their senses.

(Kiran had suggested Grima as an option—the unique nature of his draconian form allowed for more flexibility in Nifl—but Anna had quickly shut him down. While Grima arguably held a marginally higher amount of affection, if it could even be called that, for Kiran due to their time in the library, his feral nature made him a wildcard. There would be no guarantee of obedience; a minor disruption, perhaps formed through an abuse of a loophole, would mean death in enemy territory. Furthermore, Grima would cause discordance with the other members of their group.

Consequently, Grima’s presence, bound by Breidablik’s orders, would be of more use in Askr as a defensive measure. Here, there is more leeway for a slip-up.)

Thus, for fliers, they, in consideration of Heroes, had decided to bring only Caeda and Cordelia. Two would be much more manageable than a full squad. While both women are experienced fliers, their experience had not been the deciding factor for their involvement. Both women had previous experience with the other members of their excursion party.

Caeda with Marth, Merric, Athena, and Linde and Cordelia with Robin, Libra, and Tharja.

For their regular soldiers, they had decided upon ten fliers, bringing up the total of pterippi-mounted individuals to twelve.

With their group’s smaller size, harmony must be a priority. While skill still played an important role, power alone would be worthless if they could not coordinate their movements. Additionally, Askr’s other fronts—primarily the western area—are a major concern. While Askr’s king could still supply troops and protection to the borders, the Order’s split would still weaken the nation’s defenses—less available Heroes as it is alongside the obvious threat of a war on all fronts.

That had been one of the reasons for why they had not chosen the Whitewings for their excursion into Nifl. While they were legendary fliers with strong affinities for group-based combat, their presence would serve more use on the western front with Minerva and Michalis. Furthermore, they would be able to aid the king’s troops through reconnaissance, aerial bombardment, and supply runs as well; combat is not their only asset.

Of course, the northern and southern fronts are still concerns as well. While Askr did not have any currently aggressive enemies in those areas, Askr is a rich land, enticing for would-be conquerors. A weakened and distracted nation would be much easier to assimilate than one at full strength.

Thus, the other tacticians had been split as well. While Kiran would accompany the group led by Anna and Alfonse, the others would be split between the four cardinal borders. Katarina would continue to remain at Gnótthæð with her original group and with reinforcements supplied by the king. On the western border—the source of much unease—Reflet would be sent alongside the majority of the Shepherds, the Valentians, and Grima.

Grima is a rather odd choice of course—they had worried about his unpredictability—but his brutality would be boon if Embla became too bold. Kiran has no doubt that he would enjoy the ensuing bloodshed. On that particular aspect, there would be no pressing conflict of interests.

Soren—with his hardheartedness tempered by Ike—the rest of the Greil Mercenaries, and the Elibians, excluding Lucius and Raven, would monitor the southern border.

(There had been a sense of relief when Lucius had agreed to his request to accompany the main party to Nifl. Certainly, Lucius could have simply declined—it had been a request not an order after all—and chosen a different front to employ his talents upon, but he had agreed, nonetheless.

His patient had not healed completely either, but Lucius had been prepared for that. His tonics and balms had been prepared in advance, and instructions had been given to a replacement healer. Though, that isn’t particularly unusual. Many of the Heroes had already been prepared for deployment before Anna’s sudden announcement. Perhaps they had all expected it; their worlds had been ravaged by war after all. They understood the urgency of the matter.)

And finally, the northern border would employ Innes’s expertise alongside the other Magvelians and an assortment of archers such as Gordin, Klein, and Setsuna. While the mountainous terrain would deter most potential invaders, aerial invasion is still a concern. The archers would be an incredible investment in the case of a northern invasion.

On the remaining Heroes, they would be kept under Sharena’s command and employed throughout Askr in matters such as reconnaissance and general protection.

Sharena.

That had been a peculiar choice for a temporary commander. Naturally, Kiran does not doubt her skill; she had proven countless times her reliability on the battlefield. However, Alfonse’s natural affinity for tactics and his status as the crown prince made him more suited for an assignment based in resource management and troop deployment; it would not do if the crown prince were to perish.

He had asked Anna naturally, and her reasoning had been one of practicality. While Alfonse is the more tactically inclined of the two, Sharena holds the people’s trust and adoration. If the worst came to fruition, she would be able to rally the people. Alfonse holds no such love in comparison. Rather, his actions are often scrutinized; any mistake, critical or otherwise, would be amplified and dissected.

His presence would only cause a rift among the capital’s noble houses, and if worst came to worst, he would be unable to maneuver pass their schemes. While Alfonse held some inklings of the political atmosphere, he did not have the resources to overcome them. He had his parents of course, but that would potentially be seen as a sign of weakness.

It is one thing to ally one’s self with a cousin or a rivaling noble house and another to depend on one’s direct relation. It is the difference between co-conspirators and a dependent. At least with Sharena, she would be able to utilize the support of the common people to move the pieces into her favor.

Hoisting his bag over his shoulder, Kiran sighs. Politics is a confusing matter, one that he rarely partook in in his own world, but he simply could not avoid it in Zenith, not with the company he keeps.

It is difficult enough with the threats of Múspell and Embla. He certainly does not to add the difficulties of Askrian politics to the matter.

* * *

Black clouds roll, swathes of murky ink sweeping upon the Almighty’s papyrus, and thunder rumbles, deep and heavy like the voice of a pipe organ.

He hears Anna’s voice as she urges them to hurry. Overhead, the birds squawk in a mirror image of their landbound acquaintances’ hurry. Flurries of black and shades of reds, yellows, and blues flee from an unseen hand, and upon the ground, the scampering of both predator and prey could be heard, furred paws and cloven hooves drumming lightly upon the body of the earth.

It is an exodus of the living, scurrying for shelter from the world’s weeping.

Though, whatever one’s interpretation, an omen of damnation or divine consecration, Kiran spurs Árvakr forward. Around him, his companions do the same, equally as eager to avoid the storm.

And yet, the skies open, tears falling softly from the chalice of those gazing from up above.

* * *

Leaving Árvakr at the stables is a rather bittersweet occasion; she had been with him for the majority of his time in Zenith after all. But, there is not much else that he could about it. Árvakr’s particular breed did not fare well in the cold, and taking her with him would only injure her.

Though, that could be said for the majority of their group’s mounts.

Many of their current mounts have shorter coats and larger bodies. While ideal in Askr’s more moderate climate, those traits would only act as a detriment in Nifl.

Larger calorie expenditure, inability to maintain adequate body heat, more resources drained.

The pterippi suffer from similar problems, but that had been why they had only brought two. Additionally, their usefulness for scouting and aerial bombardment could not be understated; unlike their grounded counterparts, the pterippi would be undeterred by the terrain.

They would be an asset when facing a near-unknown enemy.

Certainly, they have access to Fjorm’s intel, but much like anything else, her information holds a hint of anecdotal bias. While an experienced soldier, she did not have access to every piece of information on Múspell. Furthermore, her information itself would be subject to change; its age is subject to unease.

There is no guarantee that Múspell had not reorganized its ranks.

They could use Fjorm’s experience as a reference of course, but anything more would be unreasonable.

Thus, Anna had deigned a rest stop before Nifl. Here, in a border town, they would make their final preparations—purchasing and loading supplies, last-minute additions and adjustments to the winter gear, and so forth.

Though, perhaps calling the place a border town is a bit of a misnomer. It would be more accurate to label it a military town. Kiran had certainly received enough nods and salutes from admiring soldiers; his uniform is enough of an indicator of his status. The weaponry they carry is obvious as well, ranging from longswords and dirks to longbows and cross-bows to more exotic and unnamable instruments.

Árvakr nuzzles the palm of Kiran’s hand as he pets her. It is not a permanent change, but he will miss her all the same.

Her replacement isn’t particularly troublesome. In fact, Freikugel is a sturdy, compliant companion from the short time that Kiran spent familiarizing himself with the horse. However, his stoutness and the difference in breeding, gait, and temperament would take some time to get used to.

He pets her snout for a few more moments before ceasing, and she whinnies in return. He could not stay there all day of course.

There are simply too many tasks to complete, and their departure time had been scheduled for early morning.

* * *

The chill creeps upon them as they approach the border and by extension, Snjárhof, Nifl’s western region. Certainly, the chill had not been the only indication of their current location—the increasing amount of snow is evident enough—but it leaves the most impact on Kiran, finalizes their goals in a way that mere sight could not. It is the feeling of winter’s gloom, heady and domineering, upon his mind.

Even with his new coat and his winter gear—layers of tunics, reinforced gloves, a woolen scarf, and a sheepskin ushanka-style cap—the cold nips at his veins, seeking to quench their curiosity. He shivers and tightens his coat. Around him, he sees many of his fellow travelers do the same; they pull in upon themselves, readjusting their fur-lined outerwear.

Though, despite his own personal feelings, there is surprisingly little fanfare for the event itself. Crossing the border between Askr and Nifl is as typical as crossing the street between a library and home, simple and plainly, ordinary in all aspects except for purpose.

There are no warning shots, no soldiers from Múspell, or even perhaps a premonition, no Badb nor Huginn and Muninn.

There is simply nothing except for except for the twinkling stars, uncaring and narcissistic—Orion notching his bow with Mintaka, Alnilam and Alnitak cinching his waist, Taurus rearing its head, red-eyed Aldebaran glaring, to face Gilgamesh, and Cassiopeia reclining upon her ornamental chair, aloof and jaded.

They glimmer overhead, uninterested in mortal affairs and eternally bound by the wistful gaze of romantics.

* * *

“Are you alright? With the cold I mean.”

Lucius blinks, startled not by the content of Kiran’s question but by the sound of it. Unsurprising considering the previous tranquility of the area.

At Anna’s orders and with Fjorm’s aid, they, after another day’s worth of travel, had chosen a rest site for the night. On her suggestions, the group had chosen a large clearing in the thickest part of the nearby evergreen forest. It is a particularly useful location, providing camouflage, bountiful boughs, and insulation from cold gusts and snowfall.

Before them, the fire flickers from inside its hole. Three wide branches lie above the flame, just out of reach to avoid combustion but enough to retain the campfire’s heat. A kettle sits atop, worn metal body filled with melting snow.

Near the edge of the camp, a small stack of firewood rests, having been cut and gather by Corrin and Raven earlier in the day. While they had not planned to stay for long, the extra firewood serves as both a precaution and as reassurance.

Even with the weather’s fair appearance, precautions serve to bolster morale and give idle soldiers work. The mind, not the body, is often the greatest enemy.

“Yes”—his smile is brilliant, even with the relative dimness of their campfire—“Thank you for asking.”

Much like himself and everyone else in their current party, Lucius is dressed for the weather: layers of tunics, furred gloves and thick boots, and down insulated trousers. A scarf adorns his neck, and his staff, an arm’s reach away, leans against his log seat. A sturdy rucksack sits by his boots.

Despite the garb’s somewhat bulky appearance, the cloth is deceptively flexible, another virtue of Askr’s tailors.

After answering, Lucius leans forward and carefully lifts the kettle from its spot. There had not been the telltale whistle of a completely heated pot, but Lucius had been careful to monitor the time. A whistle at this hour would disturb those slumbering in their tents.

The steam overflows from the cup, carefully placed upon the log, as Lucius pours the water before setting aside the kettle, not back onto the flame but onto dry ground. The container’s top is screwed rather tightly—a preventive measure against unwanted moisture—and it takes Lucius a few attempts before he finally unscrews the tin cap.

Loose leaf tea: dried lavender petals and dried mint leaves.

Lucius checks his cup for debris—tea didn’t quite taste as good with dirt in it—before dropping a few pinches of the tea blend in. Using a spoon, he stirs, fragrant spirit—nostalgia, warmth, and homeliness— invoked as if by a magician’s wand.

Eventually, Lucius stills movement and sets aside the spoon. Kiran expects Lucius to begin drinking then—he had only joined the man after he had begun brewing, and tea itself would become a scarcity the further they venture into Nifl—but to his surprise, Lucius extends the cup to him.

Kiran accepts it with gratitude and a quick thank-you. The gentle heat seeps through his gloves, welcomed as much as a lover’s touch would be.

While they had already had dinner, sliced dry salami and boiled rice grain, the warmth of the tea—vapor alluring as the dulling caress of a hookah’s promise—stirs his hunger once more, both with its simplicity and its sincerity. It warms his hands and thaws the worries accumulating upon his brow, momentary bliss in the billows of human apprehension.

Lucius prepares another cup, his own, and the naturality of the world simmers alongside the musical tinkling of tin—snow-crested owls hooting, forlorn wolves howling, and light crepitating among the rustling of eternal evergreen.

Kiran watches, neither sipping nor speaking. It is not entirely enthrallment but rather a sense of deference—politeness—that drives his actions. It simply did not feel right to drink before him, not with their level of familiarity.

They are friends, he thinks. Friends often share these sorts of moments rather than rushing forward tactlessly and blindly, hurrying towards the next memory—the next eternity.

After a few moments, Lucius finishes, spoon stilling and notes quietening,

And he drinks.

It is a simple motion, nothing particularly unique, but it releases Kiran from his reverie, his hesitation.

He is careful to avoid swallowing the petals and leaves—leaden vessels upon a golden lake—and the liquid comforts, sweet bourbon without mind’s poison. It kisses his cheeks, dyeing pale flesh succulent pink, and eases his limbs, heat spreading from throat to chest to heart and to fingertips.

He doesn’t expect a conversation; the atmosphere simply did not feel right in his opinion.

And thus, Lucius’s voice startles him.

“What will you do after this?”

It is sudden, inquisitive but not malicious and certainly not idle small talk—words cascading like clear water upon a seashell and overflowing over pale white ridges. Perhaps he imagines it, but there is something more to his question—a meaning that he could not quite discern.

Or perhaps, much like anything else, it is simply his imagination.

“What do you mean?”

The word come easily in this moment, unusual considering his recent bouts of speechlessness on matters concerning the other man, but it is Lucius.

Perhaps it is strange, but the man holds him in his thrall, knowingly or not.

Laid shraap, broken geas, disgraced strengdir.

No matter the reason, his words come in a stutter—occasionally concise and other times indistinct—like a needle descending upon scarred vinyl.

Lucius clarifies, neither annoyed at his dullness nor particularly impatient. Truly, he has the patience of a saint.

“Where do you plan to go after the war? After Askr’s and Embla’s conflict resolves.”

Perhaps he should have expected that sort of question; recently, everyone had become intent on uncovering the question to that answer, Kiran himself included.

Though, he still had not discovered his answer.

Would it disappoint Lucius to learn of his indecisiveness, his inability? He is a patient man, but patience only went so far. Or perhaps, he is simply overthinking an uncomplicated matter—one either stayed or one returned back to their world. It is exceedingly uncomplicated, akin to a “yes or no,” but the ramifications itself are extraordinary.

Or perhaps, that is simply because of what Kiran stood to gain, to lose, or to merely continue—adrift upon a world of middling expectations, neither fulfilling in its achievements nor devastating in severity.

Certainly, it is better to triumph than it is to grieve, but both hold more appeal than aimless lethargy.

Though, his answer must come soon. Lucius waits, tea half-gone.

There is no satisfactory answer, no god-written tongue nor Shakespearian recital, no pre-rehearsed retort.

There is no potion, no Dr. nor Mr. to take his place, no doppelganger eager to play nor changeling wagering to perform.

It is simply just himself and fervency, a stage of two and a play of one.

Not the Sun nor an emperor or even simply Priest-McCaslin.

It is simply himself and Lucius.

And thus, he answers truthfully.

“I don’t know.”

Pitiful, idle, unknowing, human.

“Ah.”

A plain response for a plain answer. For a moment, Kiran almost thinks that he had disappointed the other man, but Lucius responds before his worries surge, consuming like a typhoon or a tsunami.

“Thank you for your answer.” It comes with a slight nod of his chin, not disappointed but simply another of his mannerisms. However, there is a hint, a wish to offer or practically advise, in his eyes, perhaps a trick of the listless flame and its mischief. Lucius wants to speak, lips—pretty as rose petal—parting slightly to form the first syllable, but then, the words still just as easily as the trick had arrived, stillborn in thought as a poorly swaddled babe, and he does not.

Instead, the words are sealed, drowned by honeydew nectar.

Perhaps Kiran had imagined it, but there exists a languor in his eyes.

* * *

Days pass without much difficulty.

The cold is hazardous naturally, but it is nowhere near as threatening as he had imagined it. It made marching difficult and procuring supplies more difficult, but rather simply, it could be worse.

(They had been fortunate enough to encounter some of the wildlife—wiry rabbit, plump redbreasted, and the occasional deer. Even with the camouflage of their coats and their natural instinct, Virion had been nimble and sharp-eyed, quickly piercing their hides with his arrows. The longer they could preserve their dried food stores, the better.)

Fjorm had commented upon it when he had asked. Was Nifl not supposed to be difficult terrain? Furthermore, where are Múspell’s soldiers?

Perhaps he had worded it poorly, but she had paid it no mind, more intent on their objectives than on politeness.

“At the moment, the gods favor us,” she had said. Simple, short, yet superstitious. He could not fault her, however. Many of Askr’s soldiers hold similar beliefs. Some carry amulets, little blessed trinkets and lucky charms, and others have traditions—a prayer and offering, usually small hard candies or perhaps a melted bit of chocolate from rations, tossed into the firepit, yellow ribbon wrapped around the hilt of weaponry, and so forth.

He had attempted to ask her about Gunnthrá as well, but it never quite panned out.

Fjorm is simply too intimidating, too unapproachable and too much like the animal she attempts to mimic—an injured wolf, fangs bared towards the world.

It is in how her eyes darken, in how the pupils dart around cautiously, always paranoid and ready to pounce. Even with her armor and coverings, Kiran could see how her muscles tense at the slightest flicker of abnormality: discarded branches crackling underneath unusual—human—weight rather than an animal’s, the slight crunch of snow underneath heavy-plated boots, birdsong beating and stilling in fearful anticipation.

There are many things that Fjorm notices.

Though, she is not the only one. He notices how Virion positions his hands, always ready to notch an arrow at the slightest provocation, how Marth lingers by Caeda and her pterippus, and how Robin knits his brow, eyes constantly surveying the terrain for enemies and mind forever calculating.

There are many things that everyone notices.

On other occasions, Fjorm is simply unavailable—out on night watch or resource gathering.

He could not ask Gunnthrá about Fjorm’s predicament either. Much like her sister, she is unreachable. Though in her case, it is in a much more literal sense. Since her initial warning, she has not entered into his dreams.

However, despite her aloofness, Fjorm is an obvious asset in Nifl. Unlike Askr, Nifl’s landscape lacks clear pathways, a side-effect of the frequent snowfalls, and signposts are few and far between. Instead, they plot their path by landmarks and on nights where the cold is bearable and the sky cloudless, the stars overhead.

The landmarks themselves are rather plain at first glance—natural rock formations, lonesome trees, and frozen lakes.

However, it is not solely the location that matters, but what marks them—trees scarred with what appears to be squirrel prints, worn boulders with indentations, and a plethora of other patterns and combinations. To Kiran’s untrained eyes, it appears nonsensical, too natural to be reliably used as navigation points, but Fjorm moves with ease.

The days pass quickly.

* * *

“Are you sure this is wise? We still have ample supplies, and I’d like to avoid giving away our presence so soon. This may be your home, but it is also enemy territory now.”

Fjorm nods.

“The people of Nifl are resilient. We do not bend easily. I have no doubt that they will support us. But, if it worries you, send a scout ahead.”

There is a sigh then before Robin replies, “If you say so. Although, it isn’t my final decision. I’ll send word to Anna, and she can decide from here.”

It is a bit halfhearted on Robin’s part; normally, he would be prone to arguing, but much like the rest of their group, the ice and snow have sapped his energy. Furthermore, for someone like Robin who grew up in the desert, Nifl’s climate is repressive, overbearing rather than simply stifling.

After a few minutes of waiting, Anna sends the scout ahead.

* * *

“I was stationed here during my first year as a soldier,” she says.

Kiran gives her a curious look. Her words are sudden, and her voice startling, reverberating like a gong, in the loneliness of the inn. The lamplight flickers, embers casting their sight upon the room around them—worn oak table and chairs, rugged flooring dressed with red carpet, and decorated walls. They dance upon the table, and the glasses, half-filled with cheap wine, coruscate in return—an unspoken applause for the imprisoned dancer.

“I used to visit this inn every day at noon. The lunch they serve is superb.”

A bit sudden and somewhat of a strange train of thought, especially with consideration to her previous aloofness, but perhaps, Fjorm merely wants to talk, small talk unrelated to their current worries and filler to drive away the silence.

At the very least, she had been alone for weeks, driven from her nest by invaders and into the kaleidoscope of the world’s basin, a mixture of greens, blues, browns, and reds swirling and shifting into an hourglass of hues, named and unnamed, and tumbling like powdered marble.

Even if their reasons are different, monumental disparities in their motivation and shape, silence is a word he understands, or will come to understand completely.

Silence is comforting, but only for so long before one became too accustomed to its presence. Its hands, fingertips cool, caressed lovingly until the fingers eventually curled, strangling and unforgiving and forgetting.

She continues, “They served me these little flat cakes, no bigger than a tea saucer and filled with berry jam, and on some days, fish eggs. On occasion, the innkeeper would make them with sliced poultry breast and a bit of curd cheese. I would often eat it with a cup of fermented rye.”

To Kiran, it did not sound particularly delicious, not with his understanding of her upbringing. Surely, Nifl’s royalty could afford a more extravagant meal? Why did a mere cake impress her?

Perhaps she had anticipated his thoughts or perhaps she understands the ridiculousness of her words, but Fjorm continues.

“It was different. I ate and drank as a commoner would—no roasted boar, mouth stuffed with glazed apple, no honey cake with bits of walnuts and flecks of chopped dates, no robust reds, aged carefully.”

Her eyes are melancholic as she speaks.

“It was different,” she repeats,” and the people were different. They treated me with respect of course, but still, they lacked the formality that I had come to expect.”

“It was refreshing.”

Kiran nods. There is not much he could say in response to her words, not without sounding shallow anyway. She quiets then, contemplative. Unsurprising really, she had said more words in this particular conversation than she had in the entirety of her time with the Order.

Though as the silence ticks on, his mind wanders back to the subject of Gunnthrá. He had not forgotten Fjorm’s reaction, but before, her presence had always cowed him. But now, she seems more approachable, if plaintive. He rolls the question on his tongue and weighs the benefits and shortcomings of it. His curiosity would be satiated, but would Fjorm consider it a slight against her? Certainly, it would be a nosy question, but it is not offensive enough to damage their ties.

Furthermore, in their current situation, necessity triumphs over emotions and personal bias. Fjorm, with her military experience, would not throw away an alliance over something as small as this.

Perhaps it is curiosity, or perhaps it is the foolishness that blooms during the lull of darkness, warmed by dinner’s wine, unfurling like eager moonflowers, and lacking in the finesse of careful thought.

Whatever the reason, he asks, question posed as straight as a rapier.

“What’s wrong with Gunnthrá? You seemed angered the last time we talked about her. In Askr I mean.”

The words come as a rush, childish and less rehearsed than what had been said in his mind, but it delivers his message well enough.

Fjorm frowns, and Kiran almost thinks that she intends to leave for her room, but instead, she speaks.

“Do not misunderstand. She is my sister and a prophetess, but…I do not necessarily agree with her decisions.”

Her answer only provokes his curiosity. Shouldn’t Gunnthrá’s clairvoyance ease the difficulties of decision-making rather than complicate it? The uncertainty of everything is certainly gone for the most part.

“Why? Shouldn’t it be easier?”

“It is, but still, there are other matters that should play into decisions.”

“Isn’t that contradictory? You’ve eliminated the uncertainty of everything. Most rulers and tacticians, or even people really, would love that sort of confidence.”

“Well…yes, in a sense.” Fjorm shifts in her seat.

“Then what’s the problem? Gunnthrá seems to have your interests at heart, but you seem to distru—”

Fjorm interrupts, eyes cold and lacking in the melancholy of earlier, “She does not consider the opinions of others in her predictions, only the outcome. She does not consider the _lives_ of others; she plays with them like dolls, much like mother does.”

Whether the wine had loosened her tongue or if these words had simply bubbled up and burst from their long-held confines, Fjorm continues, voice even and plain, no shudder nor stutter like the clicking shutter of a bellows camera.

“It is hypocrisy, a necessary state, but hypocrisy still. Why preach about taking control of one’s fate if she will only consider her gains first? Why place my brother on the throne? He lacks both trust and military experience”—her voice rises, cracking the sheet of ice that had enveloped her voice earlier—"Why let Nif—”

She pauses, as if realizing their current location and her own words.

“Never mind, my apologies, Summoner.” Despite the meaning of her words, Fjorm’s tone is flat, more of formality than anything truly apologetic.

Without another word, she exits, leaving behind her wine and bumping pass Anna on her way out.

Anna’s expression is questioning as she looks at Kiran from her position at the entrance of the room, but he does not have an answer for her.

Certainly, he could piece together the clues, but that is simply conjecture on his part, nothing truly substantial.

The wine glitters in its glass and the ember twirls in its cage, unwavering in their attention.

* * *

If it were a story, perhaps Gunnthrá would have appeared that night, serene smile alight and clothed in marble like Maria. Perhaps an epiphany would occur, and he would receive an answer—cryptic or clear, he isn’t quite sure. Surely, anything would be better than silence, better than rushed conclusions, but it does not.

It is not.

Gunnthrá does not appear, nor does he receive guidance from the unconscious mind.

Instead, he merely wakes, neither well-rested nor restless.

Breakfast—goat’s milk, dried strawberries, and buckwheat flour cakes drizzled with honey—comes with the rise of the sun and is presented by a servant girl, freckled cheeks flushed from the morning’s chores, dark auburn hair bound by twine, and hands calloused from years of work.

The girl is rather cheerful as she serves them and chatters happily about her family—an overly serious brother, a foolish niece, and so forth. There is a hint of mischief as she speaks of them, hints of fondness and of annoyance, and spun in a way that accentuated both their virtues and their faults in near-equal measures.

It is the love and annoyance that characterizes family and originates from familiarity.

Though, she never quite introduces herself or her relatives by name.

A bit impolite but not unsurprising. They would not be staying long after all. It would be a waste of breath.

Kiran digs a fork into one of his cakes as she chatters, half-listening and half-thinking. It is not disinterest that causes his absentmindedness but worry—Fjorm and her relatives, Múspell and her generals, Askr and her sister nation Embla, home.

There are many subjects that bother him—flitting and buzzing like the hum of house flies, dark and troublesome.

Though at the very least, as Fjorm had said, the cakes, despite the plainness of their appearance, are delicious.

* * *

They leave soon after, supplies replenished and footsteps faded by the softly falling snow.

There are complaints naturally, but most are lighthearted, more self-depreciating in nature than genuine distaste. Some are particularly morbid as well, but that is to be expected in their current predicament. Even if they had not yet encountered the enemy, the weather itself held no allegiances.

Wind abound from nature’s pipe organ, snow serenading eternity’s Grace, and hail descending like wrathful penance.

Certainly, it is a different experience than the night around the campfire that they had shared weeks earlier when Nifl had still been new—vibrant and young and yet unmarred by hostility and woe.

Humor certainly helped in unideal situations.

In particular, Kiran remembers Corrin’s quip about avoiding frostbite and having to wear “human shoes.” It is a silly sort of complaint stemming from a desire to lighten the mood. Perhaps it is misguided—Jakob certainly hadn’t enjoyed it by his expression—but it is an attempt, nonetheless.

After Jakob had finished fretting and departed, Corrin sighed, “Jakob has never been one for my jokes.”

He had shifted then, normally bare feet wrapped by warm white cloth and garbed in thick boots, the “human shoes.” Much like his feet, Corrin’s attire had changed as well. Alongside his normal armor, he (and Jakob as well if Kiran were to consider the man’s fussiness) had added a few more layers of cloth underneath the silver of the metal and a thick wool hat and scarf to complete the appearance.

“Although, I truly do dislike shoes,” he said, “I simply never got used to them, even with my father’s insistence. A bit strange, right Summoner? In moments like these, I miss my puppets.”

Puppets. Corrin’s particular quip had been memorable because of his mention of puppets. Kiran remembers the storybook naturally, but it had always elaborated on the Prince’s skill with the sword over anything pertaining to puppetry.

That is another difference between the storybook and the individuals involved.

Having noticed the other’s inquisitive expression, Corrin explains, “Do not misunderstand; Yato is a fine weapon, but it cannot replace Marie, my beloved mount. I could cross half the length of a battlefield in an instant with her. She, Sanson, and Louis have always served me well.”

He sighs again, a musical whistle even with its melancholy.

“If only I had been summoned with them and my other puppets; I could put on quite a beautiful show. Then perhaps, Jakob would not worry so much. I may be less skilled than my brother in swordplay, but I am no greenhorn.”

Another sigh, wistful, before he glances once again at Kiran.

“But I do apologize, Summoner. This must sound like whining to you. But please understand, those puppets are akin to extensions of myself. It is simply strange to not have them around after years of companionship.”

A light laugh then, another attempt to loosen the mood.

“Some would say I prefer their company to people, but that is merely slander. A good puppeteer must attend to their subjects after all.”

He gives a nod to Kiran.

“If you wish, I can elaborate on their mechanisms in more detail at a later date, when we are less pressed for time. Now, I must go help Jakob with our final preparations. It would not bode well to be caught unprepared in a blizzard.”

And with that and a brief farewell, Corrin—unnaturally graceful as always—leaves, a glimmer of color upon the snow around them.

With consideration of their apprehension against deploying draconic allies, perhaps Corrin is a strange choice for their excursion, but he had been an exception. Naturally, he carries a Dragonstone, bound to cord and hung loosely around his neck, but during his time in Zenith, he had never transformed, preferring blade over claw. He did not depend on it—his bestial nature—to fight like some of their other allies.

He is human—warm-blooded—in all material respects.

When Kiran had asked on the matter once, Corrin had simply replied, “It simply isn’t for me. I am not as elegant or refined in my dragon form, not like Kamui. Too clumsy. I would be more of a hazard to our own forces than the enemy.”

There had been a light laugh—a jesting tone—but the light had not reached his eyes.

There is a story there, a tale hidden, but at the time, Kiran had not pursued it.

Corrin’s eyes had simply been too guarded, lacking in the normal friendliness that Kiran had come to expect.

Kiran shakes his head, dispelling his thoughts, before urging Freikugel onward.

There is no time to ponder such trivial matters.

They had weeks’ worth of travel left.

* * *

Perhaps it should come as no surprise when their group is ambushed, but it does.

Kiran had become too used to the stillness, the complacency of peace. Unlike the others, he had not borne the yoke, the burden of birth in a warring world. Even with the talks of war in his own realm, both fictional or otherwise, it had always been elsewhere—a problem to chitter about over a morning coffee or even a morning tea depending on where one made residence.

Certainly, he had experienced skirmishes before during his various excursions with the Order, but always soon after, he would forget, dazzled by the wonders of the Zenith and his own conclusions. Furthermore, he had never been quite at the centerfold of the conflict. Unlike the other tacticians, he could not defend himself; thus, Anna had taken extra precautions to set him up elsewhere, just near enough to receive updates by horseback or avian carrier but not near enough to be noticed by an enemy soldier.

Rarely would he be caught in spotlight.

This conflict begins rather haphazardly—an arrow flying and embedding itself into ground before Virion. It had not been a matter of luck or amateur skill, but a testament to Virion’s senses.

Years of conflict had honed his intuition, and the man had stopped just before the arrow would embed itself into his horse’s skull.

A dead soldier, especially one of Virion’s caliber, would unquestionably be a boon for an enemy, but a rampaging team of horses would benefit them much more so in the moment.

What recognition would a horse have for a dead (and human) rider? Near nothing. Furthermore, would a seasoned group of soldiers panic—scatter—at the sight of a felled comrade? Certainly not.

A deceased horse has a much higher likelihood of eliciting panic from its fellow beasts than a human corpse.

Dark smears of black litter the skies, and red drips upon the white of parchment.

The clink of metal sounds—the familiar wineglass toast of Red and Pale—and frenzy is called forth, not by Bacchus but by Mars.

It sounds, reverberating through the area before dispersing as quickly as it comes—dandelion seeds fluttering gently and soundly in an unseen but felt spring wind.

Perhaps it should come as surprise, but it does not.

Despite what the stories spoke and what his own imagination provided, most battles of this particular nature and size never quite lasted long.

No heartfelt soliloquy, no damning revelations, no God-given reason.

It is only unthinking song, the lilt of mercy’s penance, and then cruel silence.

* * *

After their first encounter, Múspell’s forces become rather common, at least in comparison to their previous inactivity. Even with Fjorm’s expertise and knowledge of the landscape and their smaller numbers, it becomes a difficult task to avoid conflict.

Perhaps it is poor luck or perhaps a testament to Múspell’s skill, but conflict and annoyance become a near-daily occurrence—guerilla raids on their supplies, traps hidden underneath evergreen and snow, and a plethora of other nuisances.

While they could fend off the ambushes and head-on confrontations, the supply raids are the primary concern.

Certainly, they are capable of hunting and foraging when the weather allows for it—Virion, Athena, and Fjorm are excellent—but they could not feed an army, no matter how seemingly small, on scavenging alone.

Supply lines are a necessity of warfare for a reason.

At night, Kiran hears Anna and Alfonse, low-voiced and secretive, discussing the matter. Their solutions are uncomfortable, immoral, to Kiran’s ears.

Stealing—pillaging—from villages and looting the dead.

Certainly, Kiran has read about the wars of his own world and their atrocities, both small and substantial, but it is different when one is faced with the possibility of it.

(Much like his own world, the subject of the deceased and their belongings is a tricky, oft argued topic among Zenith’s residents and the gathered Heroes. Some, like Robin and Katarina, held no qualms about gathering the deceased’s belongings: salvageable weaponry, medicinal supplies, anything that could be put to use.

For others, it is akin to blasphemy, disrespectful to the highest degree. Some are driven by religion, others by superstition and fear.

For some, a dead man’s weapon brought ill luck to the plunderer and to those around them.

It is a source of frequent contention.

And then further still, there are those that fell between the two camps. They simply took what was necessary—no more no less.

Mismatched arrows—bouquets whose flowers delivered life’s last rite—scabbards a

or at the very least, they understood the unmerciful nature of war.

War favored the pragmatic, the clever, and the lucky.)

While Nifl’s inhabitants were rather generous with their offerings; they could not give enough to support an army of their current size, not with the raids as well. Fjorm could most likely wheedle extra provisions by virtue of her nationality and social standing, but she herself would be unwilling to do so. Her loyalty lies with her country, for better or for worse.

(It would be a divisive decision. Individuals like Marth and Corrin would oppose the verdict while the more pragmatic like Robin and Jakob would agree with varying degrees of reluctance. This is not to mention the obvious Fjorm; she certainly wouldn’t agree with their decisions.)

Furthermore, one could not quite be certain about loyalty. While Fjorm held the highest trust in her clansmen, Anna and Alfonse are less certain on the matter.

Loyalty could be bought; loyalty could be forced; loyalty could be threatened.

How else could Múspell learn of their exact location, time and time again?

There are many paths through Nifl, but only few could offer a decent chance of safety. Once one learned of another’s whereabouts and inferred their objectives, there is not much uncertainty left, not with an experienced tactician on hand.

They could assume a slip of security, but that did not make sense, not with their current roster. Fjorm’s vigilance and her insight into the land, Athena’s and Virion’s understanding of the hunt and of subterfuge, Robin’s rather expansive (if overly cynical) knowledge of human behavior, and so forth.

The conjectures fade until only one remained in any sense viable.

However, there is a slight reluctance in their voices, ones borne from experience and from leadership. They must provide, but understanding bore heavily on them, especially Anna.

Purloining a simple pouch of nuts could mean disaster for a family. A small box, no bigger than one’s palm, of candied winter melon would soften the morale of others, especially in Nifl’s perpetual winter. A stolen bundle of tinder could spell frostbite and eventual (or more accurately, quick) bodily amputation for an unsuspecting family.

There are many problems, for both themselves and others.

But, it is simply the path of existence.

And so, the discussions persists with no clear verdict.

* * *

"Are you alright? You do not normally frequent the frontlines.”

Kiran should feel annoyance at the banality of that question. He has certainly heard enough of it—repetitions that varied only in tone, voice, and verbosity—but he does not.

Instead, there is the familiar swell of gratitude, more familiar in these two years than past and akin to gentle resurgence than a waterfall. It is a natural sort of feeling—the pleasure of acknowledgement, the notion of existence, and the innate unity of humanity. Perhaps it could be seen as selfish point of view, but in the moment, it is merely the slight stirring of the heart’s necessities.

Though, words could not quite describe it, not entirely. It should be a simple answer, a _yes_ or a _no_ , but his lips refuse to open, sealed by winter and listless melancholy.

There is a shuffle of boots upon night’s lain snow as Marth, without waiting for an answer, strides forward and sits beside him. His movements are dignified, earned from years of tutelage in formality and etiquette. However, he isn’t quite as graceful—as ethereal—as Corrin. There is no tilt of the chin and no glimmer of inquisitive red, no unnaturalness in the posture, utterly perfect unlike what a distinctive way of speech would imply; no silvery white strands—gleaming as the silver in a dragon’s hoard—nor elfin charm, befallen blessing of La Belle Dame.

He is human, wholly human, and that is a comfort.

He is as Adam to Helel.

Imperfect in perfection but perfect in imperfection.

Kiran expects Marth to speak, to ask once more, but the prince does not. Instead, he simply remains silence—peaceful despite their current campaign—and with gloved hands, fingers gently curled, resting palms downward upon the leather of his pants.

Puffs of white fade and emerge over the brown fur of Marth’s scarf, wrapped snugly around the pale gauze adorning his neck and peeking from beneath the cloth of his white wool cowl. Much like everyone else, Marth had traded his normal garb for more appropriate clothing: Layers of cloth and insulation, layers of socks underneath well-made boots, and layers of white upon brown upon gray.

Even his cape had been traded for a simple cowl.

However, despite the difference in colors (How drab, how ordinary, the colors were!), there is a kindness to him, visible and angelic and radiating.

It is a comfort.

If he were still the person, new to Zenith and to Marth, he would hold this moment as extraordinary, blabber until Fenrir consumed the sun, but he does not.

Instead, the world moves around them, turning on its axis as it has for millennia—low crackling fire, the serenade of owls and the melancholy of wolves, and the hum of the boiling soup broth, winter carrot and wild root and fragrant spices.

Tharja passes—hands bandaged in pale white as she retrieves the kettle for her tea—and Virion with her. Nearby, Shigure, Niles, Merric, and Ishtar quibble, playing cards scattered upon the top of their makeshift table, a commandeered supply crate, and beside the books. Against its side leans a bow. Among the sounds of their quibbling is Jakob and Athena’s rather heated argument—the subject matter being the best way to butcher tonight’s catch, a young deer, for the soup and for later transportation.

Around them, the world breathes and exhales as it always has.

It is a comfort.

And for tonight, with the moon gazing from her perch, it is enough.

He sleeps, and he dreams, not of Kubla Khan or of Kadath, but of familiar walls and familiar landscape, trout lilies and dandelions submerged beneath the white of winter’s revelry.

The living room is much the same—mahogany cabinet with bone china secured inside the glass and tucked into the corner next to the television set, well-worn yet well-kept furniture arranged in a mundane composition, and floral-patterned wallpaper.

A bundle of lilies peek from the porcelain vase atop the coffee table.

It is a simple, familiar setting.

The third tread creaks as he steps on it, hand upon the wooden handrail.

(His father had always said that he would fix it, but he never quite got around to it. Though, Kiran had always avoided stepping upon the third tread; the noise was bothersome. Perhaps his father had truly fixed it; Kiran could not say with certainty one way or another.)

Upon his right, upon the curling roses and pale pink, portraits and frames decorate the wall, each a miniature room, a miniature sight onto a world that existed only in idealized recollection.

He passes frames—firm redwood squares, walnut brown rectangles, and grey barnwood circles—and he deigns to not see, hopes to blind himself to their silent declarations, their gazes, neither condescending nor overly welcoming.

Without worry, without melancholy, without love and only aware of the world within.

It is the shame—the disdain and silence—that pains.

No words, no sight, no clasp of hands.

He walks by his mother, eyes alight in joy and donning white, and then his father in dark blue and standing proud afront his (then) latest project, a newly crafted desk. He sees himself, young and smiling and small.

With each step, he moves forward, pass old memories and stories that he has never heard. Each step brings age to the pictures, a wrinkle in the corner of his mother’s eyes, a thread of white in his father’s hair, a change of stance and gait.

And eventually, he disappears as well.

As he aged, he hadn’t been one for pictures. At the very least, his parents had never taken any.

More obligation and decoration than any true fondness, only his youth, his childhood, had remained etched upon the frames’ contents.

No magic mirror or eternal, cursed portrait, it remains simply as formality and as a guise for normality.

And eventually, he reaches the next floor.

* * *

Despite some of their group’s (admittedly justified) grumbling, they are neither mindlessly wandering nor are they recklessly charging into Múspell with their meager forces.

Rather, they, due to Fjorm’s suggestion (and surprisingly, Anna’s approval), are seeking the remnants of Nifl’s forces.

It isn’t quite a fool’s endeavor, but it is certainly close.

The country is large, hostile in both weather and the roaming inhabitants—bandits, Múspell’s ilk, and even the wildlife.

(Disturbing a hibernating bear most likely was not one of Alfonse’s greatest decisions, accidental or otherwise, but at the very least, they got a decent amount of meat and hide from that occasion.)

But, much like with Fjorm’s initial guidance, there are methods of circumventing (or at the very least, easing) the difficulties concerning locating Nifl’s remaining forces. Much like with navigation, the soldiers of Nifl left markings—encrypted messages masked as nature’s work—along the landscape.

Messages, warnings, and even simple greetings—acknowledgements that they still lived.

It is a somewhat obtuse sort of message system, especially considering the frequency in which the cipher changed—once every month normally according to Fjorm—but it did not seem to bother her.

Unlike his world, they did not have radio or telephone either. Outside of Askr’s birds and perhaps magic-based transmissions with the more metaphysically-inclined powers, many of Zenith’s inhabitants relied on letters or even simply a traveler’s word-of-mouth for long-distance messaging.

How did Nifl send its new ciphers to the more remote outposts before the monthly change? According to Fjorm, they were simply required to memorize the four most recent ciphers with the latest known for an individual taking precedence. Ideally, the latest would be the month’s cipher. If one were to only know the previous three, then he or she was required to combine the previous three ciphers—picking and choosing symbols—and to mark the date (in code) of the message’s inscription.

It is a bit overly complex and unwieldy in Kiran’s opinion, but that method is simply Nifl’s tradition. Fjorm seemed to have no trouble deciphering any messages they encountered anyway.

Whatever his opinion, Fjorm guides them towards Nifl’s remaining (and most likely bedraggled and scattered) forces.

Personally, Kiran prefers the rare moments when Fjorm consults the locals for information. To him, that method seemed more reasonable, less haphazard than relying on barely legible scribbling.

(Apparently, that had been another reason for why they had stopped at that village a month or two ago. While that rest stop had allowed the soldiers’ morale to rise again, the village also served another purpose. Despite its relatively obscure—“off-the-beaten-path” as to quote triteness—location, the village is a hub for information. While it is not held to as high of esteem as the settlements near Nifl’s crossroads or the border towns, it still served as place where information could be gathered and rumors dissected.

There is always the possibility that Múspell had deciphered Nifl’s code, but Fjorm seemed confident enough in the opposing country’s inability to do so. According to her, Múspell’s soldiers, before the invasion, rarely ventured far enough or stayed long enough to grasp their code’s language; furthermore, any prisoners of war would refuse to disclose the code, preferring death to disgrace. In that particular matter, she, no matter how naïve, seemed confident.

At the very least, they supplement the messages with rumors and hearsay from the locals. That is a comfort of sorts for Kiran.)

But, in this occasion, this matter is not up to his discretion.

He is not the one offering guidance.

* * *

A streak of grey fur and crystalline shine catches Fjorm’s attention, and she almost rushes after the apparition. Overhead, the world is a sea of midday blue, drifting white ships upon its still waters.

There is a tightness to Fjorm’s form as she restrains her eagerness and her desire for similar company. Certainty, Askr has offered her respite thus far, but there is a certain comfort to be found among one’s own countrymen and customs.

However, despite the relative closeness of their destination—as suggested by the deciphered messages, rumors, and the sight of the scout—and her own eagerness, a wariness exists in Fjorm’s eyes.

It would be simple enough for one of Múspell’s soldiers to don Nifl’s attire and then attempt to lure them in the direction of an ambush. They, due to the distance and the speed of the soldier’s retreat, had been unable to discern the soldier’s features outside of the color of the cloak and the familiar shimmer of Nifl’s armor.

This is not to mention the area in which the scout had entered—a mountain pass. For a single scout, traversing the terrain would not pose a problem overall. Time would be a factor of notable consideration for both individual travelers and for groups, but it would be much easier (and somewhat quicker) for a single individual to navigate. In comparison, the relative narrowness and length of the pass would be a risky endeavor for a group of their size.

Even at little over six hundred forty people and combined with their mounts and supply wagons, it would be a risk. In an ambush, it would be easy enough for enemy troops to surprise and to assault the rearguard while cutting off the front’s escape. Additionally, their relative lack of fliers would pose an issue if Múspell assaulted from above. Their archers could only fell so many fliers in such a situation.

Furthermore, while their own soldiers were extraordinary, scaling leagues of rock in seconds is a feat meant only for legend and myth. They would not be able to depend on their infantry, and an archer’s arrows could only fly so far.

Nevertheless, the soldier had fled in the direction that the messages and rumors had pointed towards.

While it would be more ideal to circle around the pass than to cross it, their current supplies and Nifl’s weather made a longer route unappealing.

Thus, Cordelia and two of the other fliers are sent ahead to scout.

* * *

It takes them roughly four weeks to cross the entire pass.

Even when compared to the rest of Nifl’s snow-laden state, it is a monotonous sort of trek—slippery rock on both sides, sky overlaid with the same shades of blue and pinpricks of stars, and the same winding, frozen river. Only occasionally did they see a wild animal (and even then, it was promptly killed for that day’s supper).

Thankfully, the river provides well enough when it comes to meal. Underneath the thick layer of ice, the river is teeming with fish—green-scaled bass, bluegill, and plethora of other fish. Almost anything they were able to fish up from the holes they created and by whichever method—net, makeshift string and rod, or even spearing—they cooked and ate. There simply isn’t enough time to be picky.

They had been careful of course. Even with the ice’s density, creating too many holes in close proximity would crack and break the ice, especially with addition of their group’s weight and the weight of their supplies.

Scraps of jerky and meats from last night’s dinner, smaller fish like minnow that would be uneconomical to cook and eat, and even insects and larvae when they could be found.

(It had been a particularly lucky find when Athena had found a beehive in one of the crevices of the left wall during the second week. With a branch, some spare, oily cloth, and a bit of flame, they were able to collect the hive and its contents without much trouble.

The honey is particularly rewarding after months of bland hardtack, dried and chewy meats, and whatever else they could scrounge up.

Though, the minnow still worked best as bait. The flailing of a fish attracted more fish than a still bug normally did.)

It is a relief to Kiran when they reach the end of the mountain pass. Even with the lack of enemies, the monotony and tightness of the corridor were incredibly detrimental to morale.

There is a collective sigh of relief as they reach the end, leaving underneath the gaze of age-old constellations.

* * *

Days after traversing the mountain’s pass—Skaði’s Pass as Fjorm had helpfully supplied—they lose one of their wagons.

The march had been a quiet affair, only accompanied by the now-familiar whistle of wind and the common crunch of snow—the press of worn boots and the fleetfooted steps of a scavenging animal. Chatter and jests had long dwindled, becoming relics of spring.

They had been careful of course, but much like with everything else, tiredness had dulled awareness. Though perhaps carelessness and complacency had played a part in the matter; Múspell had not yet entrenched themselves entirely into Nifl after all, and Skaði’s Pass, an obvious chokepoint, had been barren of both booby traps and enemy soldiers.

It had been a quick sort of affair, though no less gruesome, and a prelude to trouble.

The panicked squealing of the horse had been the first indicator of danger.

Neither arrow nor hail had been the cause of suffering. Rather, the beast and its rider had been unfortunate enough to step onto trapped ground.

If it had simply been caltrops or barbed wire, the matter would be comparatively easy to mend with healing magic. However, it had been significantly worse—a trou de loup.

Under its own girth and the weight of its rider, the horse plummets into the now unconcealed hole and onto the sharpened sticks. Like the teeth of a rabid dog, the wooden spears, tips smeared russet, sink into the flesh of the horse, dying its white fur scarlet, and into the rider, a round-faced man—Kaldr. Onto them, the wagon tumbles, dragged by the pull of gravity. The wood creaks, provisions scatter, and the cries of both human and beast mingle and resound. Bone shatters, and tendons tear in a futile struggle for escape.

Whether fortunate or regrettable, the horse had taken the brunt of the spikes, its thick, muscular body cushioning its rider in an unwilling final act of loyalty. Though, it could not shield its rider entirely. Spikes pierce the man’s chest, his shoulders, anywhere where the horse’s flesh and bone grow thin and soft.

On most occasions, the will to live is an asset, an admirable trait bestowed upon all beings. In this occasion, it only prolongs the inevitable.

Overhead, the sky gleams blue, and a flock of blackbirds dot the celestial sea, wings outstretched like the sails of a boat, and their cries an unintended elegy.

It is a quick affair as Virion silences them both with his arrows—cruelty’s mercy.

Magic would do no good for a pair as mangled as they are nor as ravaged by disease as they would be.

Afterwards, the provisions—whatever could be safely pulled up, cleaned, and loaded onto the remaining wagons and saddlebags—are salvaged, and a prayer resonates—numb terror tangled with relieved gratitude.

Above upon a clear sky, the blackbirds chant, and the march continues.

* * *

There is an air of paranoia as they continue.

While Múspell’s presence had been well-felt so far in its ambushes, the existence of booby traps had been a scarcity before then. Múspell, while accustomed to warring with Nifl upon its snowy borders, did not necessarily have the resources, time, and manpower to lay the entirety of Nifl with traps. Much like with their own group, the weather, wildlife, and terrain besiege Múspell’s troops as well.

Certainly, the borders and villages that Múspell occupy would have them, but for the most part, the majority of Nifl would be untouched by said traps.

Múspell, in its current tactical position and in its relative inexperience of Nifl’s deeper reaches, could only afford to employ its normal tactics in areas of greater tactical importance—strongholds, border towns, and areas where bases have been set up. Anywhere else could only afford patrols and roaming bands.

That is only what the weather and terrain—ground frost, frozen ice, and piled snow—could afford them.

Thus, the incident with the trou de loup is concerning—both for the lost of life and supplies and for what it entails.

They are closing in on Múspell

* * *

Unhappily, the trou de loup is not the only trap they encounter. Even with Fjorm’s guidance and amateur knowledge of Múspell’s warning signals—pebbles arranged in a pyramid-esque pile, branches arranged into nonsensical patterns, broken branches still attached to trees, and so forth—they cannot escape the traps entirely unharmed.

Much like Nifl, Múspell has its own system of symbols for alerting its soldiers to danger and the position of its own traps. It would not do for one of their own to fall onto their own spikes. It is a waste of life and a waste of energy to re-set the components.

Certainly, they are careful, but it is difficult with the presence of opposing patrols and the falling snow. Fatigue had set in long ago, and paranoia rampages. A flicker of movement in the corner of one’s eyes transforms from rabbit to scout to specter, and the light crunch of branches draws hands to hilts and fingers to quiver.

This fear is only accentuated by the traps they do encounter.

A soldier’s foot falls through the snow and into a bear trap—wood boards lined with long nails lodge themselves pass thick cloth and into the muscle and bone above the boot. His calf and foot are mangled but still savable, but he now favors his right foot. A forward scout steps onto a snow-covered treadle board and finds her chest and stomach mutilated by skewers; she bleeds out before Lucius or any of the other healers can stem the flow with their magic or more mundane methods.

Even the shelters they find—lonely houses in abandoned villages—are not completely or always safe. One of the spearmen, a lad of nineteen years, dies when he opens the door, trips the wire, and a board of nails swings into his skull, piercing the eyes and brain. In the house next door, one of the archers, a woman of twenty-two loses her hand when a kitchen drawer explodes upon opening, having been set in advance with runes. She trades her quiver and bow for a sword. That, she can still wield.

Later, Alfonse and two of the soldiers pull the man off the nails for funeral rites and burial.

(From the men’s passing conversation he hears that night, his name had been Mattias. From the whispers of the king’s supplied men—the veterans who have warred on Emblian soil—he hears talk of Embla. Their methods are similar at times, though they still favor direct combat to guerilla. There is fear, there is wariness, and there is numbness.

For the Order’s younger members, the ones who have only fought on Askrian soil in defense of their homeland, it is a true baptism in fire.

Afterwards, neither Anna nor Alfonse let him be the first to enter doorways nor do they let him occupy the front of the march. Instead he is relegated to the middle of the march with Tharja, Robin, and Lucius. It is unstated, but apparent for the reason why. Magic to heal and magic to destroy incoming projectiles.

Tharja is a quick hand with her magic, Robin is keen-eyed and observant, and Lucius is an experienced medic.)

Alongside observation, the frontline takes to poking the ground with makeshift walking sticks; it is a silly sort of method, but no one wants to lose limbs.

Alongside the traps, the ambushes cause unease. It is one thing to only encounter traps and another to have Múspell’s forces charge while they, panicked, flee into spikes and explosives.

There is no talk of desertion, however.

Where would one flee to in the snowfields of Nifl?

* * *

The world sings a melody of steel and wind and magic as they combat Múspell’s forces, led by a woman with hardened eyes and a golden sword. Clothed in crimson and dark feathers, she moves easily and swiftly upon the white snow, silent steps heralding death. Behind her, her scarlet hair—held aloft by gold hair bands—pools and flutters, twin comet streaks.

She moves easily in-between their own soldiers, slashing and stabbing at their armor’s weak points—openings near the joints, damaged and dented steel from previous confrontations, rivets, bulky leather—and even through the metal itself. As if protected by divine grace, the arrows whizz by her, embedding themselves into the snow instead of her dark skin.

Chainmail or plate armor, it does not matter. Her sword, glowing an eerie red, tears through it all like a letter opener.

She prefers to kill of course—and she does when she can—but her goal is to cripple the opposition.

She does not aim for Anna or Alfonse. It would be relatively easy to replace a general even if the loss of Askr’s crown prince would be a blow to morale. However, it would not be a decisive blow in the moment.

Neither does she aim for Fjorm, whose ferocity could be heard half a battlefield away. Much like the woman they now face, Fjorm is merciless, impaling enemy after enemy upon her spear and shattering bone with the force of her blows. Through the chest, through the jaw and upward like a fish upon a fisherman’s hook, and so forth. She spares not a glance for those she leaves behind in her wake.

Instead, she only continues forward, snarling and pragmatic. Whatever opening or method she requires to overcome her opponent, she does.

As a result, Fjorm, with her pragmatism and experience, would not be an ideal target. Even with the woman’s skill and her cursed sword, she would not be able to subdue her without sustaining injuries and wasting time.

It is not an economical decision.

Instead, she targets Kiran.

With ease, she dodges both Tharja’s and Robin’s magic, weaving between her hexes and his conjured, translucent birds. As the woman closes in, she thrusts her blade at Robin’s side. With luck, he manages to deflect her blade from his vital organs with a bit of his magic and injures her shoulder with a burst of blue.

Despite the intensity of his magic and her now melting shoulder guard, the woman does not flinch or relent in her assault, Instead, she moves her sword to her left hand. With her other gauntleted hand, she slams a fist into Robin’s jaw and continues on her path, more intent on her target than on killing him.

Certainly, Robin is an experienced fighter, both in long-range and close-range engagements, but he is worn from months of travel, cold, and inadequate sleep while the woman is fresh-faced and well-rested.

More arrows whizz by, and one imbeds itself into her right thigh—missing the femoral artery—but she continues still, never flinching.

As Kiran, guided and protected by Lucius, attempts to flee, he hears the shouts of his allies, dampened by the siren’s song of war—fire and brimstone, the death rattles of the downed, clashing steel, and the whistling of projectiles.

Behind him, he can hear Tharja’s magic gather as it crackles on her fingertips. Certainly, she is charged with protecting him, but Kiran knows her priority is Robin. Even if the two are not romantically involved, the two share a peculiar friendship, one based less in one-sided obsession and more on mutual respect and mutual understanding. He does not know the reason why of course; it is a secret hidden—differing—from his knowledge and the knowledge of the storybook and given only by his own observation and conjecture.

But, she is his world’s Tharja, not Reflet’s. That seems to be reason enough.

More arrows whizz by, courtesy of Niles if the mismatched fletching are any indicator. Even in the heat of chaos and with his own predicament, he has a unique awareness of his surroundings, a byproduct of his time as an outlaw and as Leo’s retainer.

However, by the loud grunt of pain behind him, the sound of footsteps—audible even in the pandemonium—and the way Lucius’s grip on his hand tightens, urging him to run faster; the woman, despite her injuries and the weapons aimed at her, does not cease her pursuit.

His heart thumps in his chest, but there is no terror, not because of overwhelming courage but because of numbness and dissociation. It is an inability to process fear rather than a consequence of a fine, disciplined character.

He tries to ignore the world around him, focusing only on Lucius’s back and the grip of the other man’s hand.

Before them, in their path, Múspell’s soldiers—three in total—block their path, having dispatched their Askrian opponents. Before they or Lucius can act, a blur of red and white slams into the center figure, lance spearing through the helmet of the Múspellian and nearly severing the head from the neck. While Múspellian craft is excellent, most equipment cannot protect against the force of a moving lance, aided by hundreds of pounds of charging beast and rider.

Aurora huffs and with a flap of her wings, evades a flurry of arrows. Even without Cordelia’s explicit guidance, the pterippus, because of her accrued experience and her familiarity with her rider, moves with ease, neither panicking nor bucking. Instead, every movement, every breath, is concise—serving a purpose.

With a twirl of her lance, Cordelia dislodges the remnants of the Múspellian and rushes towards his two allies. With ease and fluidity of movement, her mount weaves inbetween the arrows and javelins, and Cordelia reaches her target with another thrust of her lance.

Vicious, practiced, economical.

Her movements are worthy of someone considered a genius.

Whether she had purposely intervened or whether her aid had simply been coincidence, Kiran does not know. Whatever the reason, Lucius pulls him forward. There is no time for thanks as they rush forward and towards the edge of the battlefield.

He runs, stepping over and on both groaning and silent figures, and around discarded weaponry. Some are of Askrian make, and others have the telltale markings of a foreigner’s craft. Around him, the world breathes, inhaling and exhaling.

Lucius leads, his staff tilted forward and magic racing mercilessly from its inlaid conduit gem.

As the footsteps grow closer, Kiran feels Lucius’s hand loosen slightly and sees the way he steadies his staff in his other hand. He understands the meaning of course—how could he not after their time together? —though he does not want to.

Lucius, as a person, is always self-sacrificing, more concerned about others than for his own welfare.

However, it does not come to that as a blur of dark blue, white, and gold rushes pass them and intercepts the woman. Behind him, the sound of meeting swords resounds.

Sparing a glance behind him, Kiran sees their rescuer.

Alfonse.

His hair is matted by sweat and blood. Red trickles down his cheeks and jawline from multiple lacerations, a consequence of the arrow barrage that the Múspellians had announced their presence with, and portions of his spaulder—the wing and bits of the feather decor—are missing. Long tears decorate the fabric of his garments, revealing both the tunic underneath and bloodied skin. The white of his clothes, primarily around his damaged breastplate and above his boots, is stained from a mixture of dirt, mud, and blood. Alarmingly, the side of his stomach is tinged a deep red.

In his hands, Fólkvangr pushes against the woman’s sword, its red glow encompassing both blades.

On the woman herself, she, despite the injuries she has sustained so far, holds herself evenly—unsurprising considering Alfonse’s own state—and without hesitation or fear. Her shoulder guard drips, gold fusing with the dark cloth underneath and with the skin and muscle of her shoulder and upper chest. A puncture wound exists where the arrow had hit her thigh, the shaft having been more than likely broken off in her scuffle with Tharja or perhaps because of her own physical exertion. Like shedding snakeskin, burns cover her left forearm—Tharja’s handiwork.

Neither combatant is willing to surrender nor could they surrender.

As he almost stumbles in his inattention, Kiran turns his gaze back.

It feels like eternity as he runs, not as a hero in a gallant yet planned retreat but as a simple human, numb and unable to articulate terror.

It is damning yet human, a desire to live no matter appearances, losses, or gains.

However, most damning of all, he—hypocrite—prays, not in long, thoughtful gestures and fanciful words but base instinct.

Pleas of _help_ and bargains and one-word thoughts, not of heroism but of survival and of escape. There is no pondering, no philosopher’s questions on existence—only a base desire to live, to not lose anyone dear.

In this moment, he is simply a human with all their fears and hopes and irrationalities and without sensibility.

And thus, his prayer is answered, not by divine intervention but by human coincidence and human means.

A war-horn sounds as Nifl’s crown prince arrives.

* * *

It is the sight of reinforcements that drives the woman and her forces into a retreat. Even if Nifl’s forces are small, fighting against them in Múspell’s current condition would be a death sentence. It is not an easy retreat naturally. Askr’s soldiers, those still able to stand, fire upon their retreating backs—magic, arrows, javelins, anything capable of maiming or preferably, killing.

As they flee, many grab their dead’s amulets as they pass, each trinket unhooking easily from its place. For others, they swiftly hoist up their wounded and flee, unfastening bits of their comrade’s armor—spaulders, belts, anything to lighten the load and ease the perilousness of retreat. While the loss of equipment would be somewhat costly, it is a more favorable alternative than losing a fellow soldier.

Apparently, Múspell had designed its armor as such. Unsurprising with consideration to both Múspell’s and Nifl’s climates; one would accelerate decay while the other’s would make retrieval exceedingly difficult.

As they disappear in the distance, there is collective sigh of relief from their current forces. Some fall to their knees—both in prayer and because of fatigue and injury. Others struggle to stand, and others still struggle to walk to their injured comrades; for some of these individuals, they use their spears, staffs, and even sheathed swords as makeshift walking canes.

While some may not be versed in the more advanced healing, they could—at the very least—put pressure onto the wounds and turn the less severely wounded onto their sides. For others, it is the time—the reckoning—for the business of angels and Valkyries.

Kiran feels a tug on his hand—Lucius had never let go—and a pull towards the wounded, and he complies.

They pass Tharja, bleeding arm dangling uselessly and wrist broken, as she is tended to by a healer—one of Nifl’s. Beside her is Robin. His cheek and jaw have swelled, dark blues and near-blacks tinged with drying russet. Most likely, the woman’s jab had cracked or at the very least, dislocated the bone. His muddied shirt is ripped, revealing lacerated skin. Though thankfully, the blood had clotted.

Kiran looks away as Libra approaches them, and they continue by. Libra, with his experience and magic, would be able to assist Robin and Tharja without Lucius’s aid.

As they pass each body, Lucius kneels to check the pulse. For some, he merely passes a hand over their eyelids, closing them. For others, he begins his work, procuring medicine, poultices, herbs, and bandages from his pack for lighter injuries and using his magic for more severe wounds. His staff’s conduit emanates a soft green, heralding springtide and banishing cold’s grasp.

Kiran helps him as best as he can, but his aid isn’t much; the most he can do is hand Lucius the correct equipment and medication.

Thankfully, none of the individuals they check require the bone saw. While Kiran did not intentionally seek such a practice, he can hear the muffled cries from around the battlefield. Even with the ingestion alcohol and cloth gags, the soldiers are audible in their cries and whimpers.

While magic is a powerful tool for healing, it could not mend or save everything. Some injuries are simply too much, especially with their current location and situation. Furthermore, they only had so many healers.

With disease and infection as real risks and their own limited supplies—even with the addition of Nifl’s—amputation would be a better alternative than the ravages of disease. At the very least, it would be easier on the healers; it is simpler and quicker to heal a stump than to waste one’s entire energy reserves on a mangled and infected limb that may not even heal correctly afterwards.

Even the best and most experienced of healers can only do so much.

Callous perhaps, but it is simply how the world works.

They work until later afternoon, and only then do they leave the battlefield, after the wounded have been tended to and after the salvageable materials are collected.

Overhead, the birds circle and in the distance, the coyotes pad, waiting.

When they—led by Anna, Alfonse, and Nifl’s prince—leave the battlefield, the beasts descend.

There is no time to bury the dead, not with their location exposed.

* * *

Once they arrive at a safer location some distance away, the prince introduces himself as Hríd. It is more for formality’s and politeness’s sakes than because of any genuine necessity, but it is a welcomed gesture anyway.

It has been months since anyone has introduced themselves without apparent malicious intent.

There is talk—offers of respite and requests of unifying forces.

They accept naturally; there isn’t much other choice.

With their losses, there are only two hundred twenty-two left.

* * *

In a fantasy—a perfect world—perhaps they would have besieged Múspell then. Certainly, in legend, that is how the world revolved—around heroes and gallantry and less on bone saws and pitiful whimpering.

(Sacrifice.

That is another part of legend and myth and religion.

The Battle of Roncevaux Pass. The Crucifixion. The list simply went on and on.

Heroism never seemed to exist without it.)

Instead, they make the trek to Hríd’s base of operations, a remote castle farther to the northwest, in an effort to recoup.

On the Niflian prince, Hríd is a particularly polite, if somewhat awkward, man. At least, that is the impression he gives when he chatters around the campfire. He isn’t meanspirited, but his ability to read the atmosphere is lacking.

(He had asked about their route so far. That question is not unreasonable; undoubtedly, there are many tactical advantages to sharing information, especially for a land littered with enemies. However, his eyes had lit up when Anna had mentioned Skaði’s Pass.

Certainly, information on Skaði’s Pass and the surrounding areas would be useful if they were to be forced back there, but Hríd rambles. He rambles on the namesake of the area, its importance as a pilgrimage site, and so forth.

After minutes of his speaking, Anna had cleared her throat.)

His voice is steady, and education evident in how he articulates his words. However, unlike Marth and some of the other nobles, there is a plainness in his voice, and unlike Corrin, his voice lacks the distinct, patchwork accent and tone of a varied upbringing. While Corrin’s speech is strange, there is still a unified aspect to it; Nohr’s upper and lower classes still belonged to the same kingdom. Yet still, his accent is unidentifiable. It lacks the melodic, wispy tone of the Askrian kingdom and when compared to his fellow countrymen, his tone lacks the flat bluntness that the lower-class hold.

Even when compared to his sisters, his voice lacks their primness—the marker of royalty.

(On Fjorm and Hríd, there is an unusual uneasiness around them. Certainly, there is joy in reuniting with a sibling, but there is also a tenseness about them. It is apparent in the way Hríd speaks, uncertain yet wishing to conceal it, and in how Fjorm withholds her words.)

During one of their nights around the campfire, Kiran, both because of his own restlessness—he could not quite sleep even with one of Lucius’s remedies—and because of his own curiosity, questions him on the oddity.

Hríd perks up, jarred out of his own thoughts. Much like himself, Hríd could not sleep, and his shift for patrol had not yet arrived.

“Oh? My accent?”

Kiran nods, and Hríd shuffles. Tonight’s seating—if cargo crates could be called that—is uncomfortable, and the fire barely warms them. The campfire is a lonely affair as well. The majority of the others had retired for the night or left to patrol. For some, they had simply taken to walks or to stargazing, anything to avoid the act of rumination and ruination.

Normalcy and reflection are simply performances unfit for tonight’s audience.

After he finishes shuffling, Hríd speaks, “It is a bit different for you, isn’t it? Askr is not particularly close to—”

Oh, a kingdom to the far north of the continent, beyond the mountain ranges. Its geographical position places it to the northeast of Nifl, but even then, its distance from the country is massive.

He continues, “When I was younger, I was sent to live with relatives, and I studied at the schools there. For the most part, I have rarely spent time in my homeland. I think the longest I have spent there was a year preparing for my investiture? Even after leaving and graduating, I then traveled for two years before studying abroad at the academy of—”

Another distant location from both Nifl and Askr.

At the sight of Kiran’s expression, Hríd adds, “It wasn’t a terrible experience; I had my cousins and my friends, and I often sent letters to my sisters. Gunnthrá always enjoyed learning about my travels, and her tales of home always have elicited my wonder. Though that should not be a surprise, I think; the disciplines that interested me the most at the academy were anthropology, astrology, sociology, and linguistics; and I have always held a love of history.”

His tone turns sheepish then.

“I tend to become too self-absorbed in it at times as you have seen before—with Skaði’s Pass, I mean. Apologies for that as well, but history, as I have stated, is one of my passions. I think I would have become a historian or perhaps even a professor if Gunnthrá had not abdicated; that had come as a surprise to me when she announced her abdication, especially with her wishes.”

“And now, look at where we are. Gunnthrá has disappeared, our kingdom in shambles, and I in possession of Gjöll. Despite her expectations, I certainly have not been much a king or even prince so far.”

There is a hint of bitterness in his words, but it swiftly disappears with a sigh.

“Still…she must have her reasons. Gunnthrá has always been reasonable and resourceful. She would not simply disappear while our country suffers.”

He shifts once more.

“But my apologies, Summoner. You only asked about my accent, and I went on a tirade.”

His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Is there anything else you wish to ask about?”

Before Kiran can reply, there is the sound of shuffling boots—a returning patrol.

Hríd rises then, picking up Gjöll as he does.

“Ah, poor timing. We can continue this conversation at a different time if you wish.”

And with that, the conversation ends.

* * *

Call and they will answer.

As if summoned by their conversation earlier that night, Gunnthrá appears in Kiran’s dreams.

However, she does not appear in the sterile white of the study with its crystalline windows—tiny panes twinkling as if keyholes into an angel’s abode. Instead, he finds himself at the bottom of a small hill, dirt path curving upward and around. At the end of the path, a log cabin sits surrounded by evergreen trees. Wafts of smoke drift from the chimney.

There is not much else that he can do besides ascend, and so he does.

The exterior of the cabin is homely, neither lavish nor destitute. A neatly stacked pile of chopped wood sits underneath the left window, and snow peppers the rooftop, layering it white like powder sugar atop a gingerbread house. Soft orange—the light of a fireplace almost certainly—tinges the foggy glass of the windows. Nearby, an axe stands slanted, blade wedged into a tree stump as if to mock Caledfwlch or perhaps Gramr.

There is no need to attempt to peer through the windows. Kiran suspects the purpose of the dream well enough.

The lucidity of mind. The coincidence of timing. The simplicity of everything.

Hand on the cabin’s doorknob, Kiran turns it and pulls. A draft of warm air rushes to meet him, and the crackling of a fireplace greets him, sharp voice audible in the stillness of the cabin.

“Welcome, Summoner. I am glad that you are able to join me on this evening. It has been difficult for me to contact you.”

Soft eyes, maternal voice, and cloth dyed blue.

Gunnthrá speaks warmly from her spot by the table. Set before her is a teacup, steam wafting and delicately etched with a pattern of white lilies. Jasmine tea if he remembers his time with Virion correctly. Across from the teacup in front of an empty chair sits its twin. A bundle of roses—vibrant reds, dazzling yellows, and pure whites—decorates the vase that separates the twin teacups.

“You have met Hríd.”

Neither question nor accusation, it is simply statement.

She motions to the empty seat.

“Would you like a seat? Your recent experiences have most likely left you tired, and I would like to speak to you on an important matter.”

“Why didn’t you warn us?”

Gunnthrá tilts her head, neither a gesture of annoyance nor a gesture of curiosity. For someone of her caliber and abilities, it would be unnecessary—useless human imitation.

“Would you have met my brother if I had? Perhaps, but would have it been in such ideal conditions?”

“Ideal?”

His voice rises then. Certainly, they have lost people before, but nowhere near the amount that they had in the last battle. Furthermore, the injuries themselves were appalling. Even with magic, a majority of them, even the lighter ones, would scar.

(Alfonse is a prime example. His clash with the opposing general had exacerbated his wounds, especially the markings around his jaw. While movement itself would not have worsened the damage to the point of scarring, the woman, in her attempt to escape, had raked his face with her gauntlet’s claws. Thankfully, he, because of his reflexes, had avoided permanent blindness and damage to his throat. However, even with magic, scars, both dark and faded; line his jawline.)

Her voice is calm as she replies, “ Yes, ideal.”

She shifts in her seat. Around the cabin, the scent of jasmine and rose intermingle alongside the scent of cherry from the burning firewood.

“Have you considered how many possibilities exist in this world? Like the luminaries above, there are near-countless paths to take, and I have viewed many of them, more than anyone else in this world and more circumstances than even imagination can conjure.”

She continues, voice steady and eyes soft as if challenging him to interrupt.

“Can you imagine seeing your siblings die over and over? Perhaps not, you are an only child after all. Do not look so surprised either; it is evident in how you interact with others. Perhaps, friends then? Or possibly, timeline after timeline where your country collapses with no possibility of escape? Whether it is a punishment from our gods for our hubris or preordained fate, Nifl, in its current state, will suffer in one way or another. But Ymir willing, I will, to the best of my ability, direct the wheel of the gods for the sake of us both, Nifl and Zenith.”

She folds her hands, gaze intent and eyes soft still.

“But, I am not arrogant. My ability extends far above of those of my ancestors; however, like the stars and the sands of the southern deserts, possibility—by its very nature—is infinite. I cannot see every possibility by my very nature as a human nor can I see the futures of those places outside Zenith’s boundaries. I am blessed and cursed by Mímisbrunnr’s waters, but unlike the divinities, I have no means—no time—to prepare. I can only act as my intellect and my principles demand. By birth instead of sacrifice, my choice has been given.”

Despite the chill of the open doorway behind him, all Kiran can feel is heat—the gaze of judgement, soft as the weighed feather and as all-consuming as promised love, sealed by covenant. The flames flicker, casting soft haze upon the hues of the room.

It dilutes white, alters blue, softens brown, yet all is revealed in its sight.

“You must think I am a hypocrite, and I will not deny it, not this time. As I have stated, I am human, with all of their fallacies and all of their joys and sorrows. But truly, I have chosen the best option for both of us, for our loved ones. ‘The path of least conflict’ is what I have said before, and I intend to keep my word. If you must trust anything, trust my intent—trust in what it means to be human.”

Human.

Emotion, choice, and death.

Those are the constants of life.

He should believe, yet he cannot, not yet truly.

“What about Hríd then? Or Fjorm? You said you had their best interests at heart, but you herded them away from their chosen professions.”

Neither a change in expression nor agitation of movement. Truly, she seems to have an answer for everything. Though perhaps, that shouldn’t be surprising all things considering.

“They will be happy. That, I can promise, but happiness is a long trail, one that cannot be completed in a day.”

“But it isn’t their choice.”

“Is it not? Happiness is often the end-goal for many individuals, and as I have said before, I only fostered their interests and talents.”

Demure, determined, absolute.

Those are the traits that define the woman across the room.

“But is this not hypocritical of you as well, Summoner? What about your own relationships, your own happiness? Should you not pursue your own ideals before you speak on others’?”

Another tilt of the head, no less apathetic than the last and more habit than genuine curiosity. The tea besides her had long cooled, but the smell of jasmine lingers.

“In this world, we only have one chance at life, and as a result, we must act to the best of our abilities and with regards to our knowledge’s limitations. Moreover, the pursuit of happiness is intrinsic to our existence as humans. Is it then wrong to desire happiness for others, for ourselves?”

Acrimony tinges her final word—the first hint of emotion since his arrival in her abode.

“Seek out your own happiness, and bring it to fruition. That is my advice to you—not as a prophetess but as a human.”

A sigh then.

“However, I have digressed. This is not the matter in which I have come here to speak of; I do implore you to listen to my advice, nevertheless.”

Patronizing, straightforward, indubitable.

All but one are traits that normally do not define her.

She motions once more to the seat across from her, more ceremony than hospitality at this point. Much like her own cup, the tea had cooled.

Kiran does not move. His refusal is, in part, due to her words.

However, despite his lack of compliance, she continues to speak.

“Múspell’s main forces will arrive in roughly two months’ time, and with them, their ruler. But”—she adds at the sight of his expression—“do not fear for I am with you and with me, my guidance. I will not allow defeat.”

Incredulousness is his response.

Certainly, Gunnthrá has the gift of premonition, but as she had said before, she could only view so many. Furthermore, human error is another factor. It is one thing to predict and another to follow through with the necessary measures. While he did not necessarily agree with her meddling, she had been right in one aspect—human fallacy.

Unfettered by his response, she continues, “I am making preparations for his—Surtr’s—arrival, and in due time, I will call to you again. When that time comes, make haste according to the instructions I will give you.”

Her tone leaves no room for argument.

“For now, rest. Dawn draws near.”

The strings of fate—of prospect—act of their own accord, and he leaves their marionette at her request.

* * *

There is both concern and hope, especially among the Niflians, as he relays his information to the commanders and those higher up in the command chain. In Fjorm’s case, however, her eyes are conflicted, though it passes quickly enough. A trick of his mind, perhaps? It had been early enough in the morning when he had addressed them.

Though, he does not speak of Gunnthrá’s more personal accusations or of her revelations about herself.

Stirring up conflict is not an ideal decision in their current predicament.

* * *

The journey to Vida is an uneventful and slow one. The former because of a noticeable lack of violence and the latter because of the (relatively) frequent stops that they had to make because of the weather and injured men.

While they encounter fragments of Múspell’s forces, none of their clashes hold the same ferocity as the battle with swordswoman. It is a fortunate sort of occurrence.

Robin conjectured that the lack of follow-up was in part, due to the severity of the last battle. Certainly, the weather plays a part in it. Tracking would be difficult as well, especially with the woman’s injuries. Furthermore, much like travel, inlaying supply lines would be a difficult endeavor. Even with the existence of preexisting supply routes, it would be difficult to get the locals to cooperate. Unquestionably, the threat of punishment is a strong deterrent for dissent and sabotage, but that did not mean it would be stamped out completely.

(Dissent came in many forms—botched orders, poorly prepared meals with high probability of food poisoning, and in the worst cases, leaked information to rebel forces and border countries. The list of intentional offenses, both minor and major, went on and on.

“Public whipping can only deter so much, you know? At a certain point, everyone just becomes desensitized to it. You cannot simply execute everyone as an example either. Where would you get the labor from then? While soldiers can certainly do it, it is much more efficient to put the locals to work. At least, that is what my dad used to complain about—in more articulate words of course. I never had much experience with it personally since I wasn’t let outside of the capital on most days—without extensive supervision anyway. Don’t look at me like that either, Summoner. Plegia had to fund its war somehow, or did you expect us to kneel to Ylisse, the instigator?”

Whether because of his status as a Hero, his status as Grima’s intended vessel, or simply his body’s natural capabilities, Robin’s wounds had healed rather nicely—no distinctive scars or complications. He simply looked as he did before the battle, albeit with a different set of clothes and armor.

Though, the soreness caused by healing process made him particularly snappy and terse at times—to everyone except Tharja, Libra, and Virion anyway.)

During this time, Lucius becomes rather sparse as well. With the increased number of injured and healing, the man’s attention shifted to his work. Any time that he wasn’t beside the wagons and checking on his patients, he spent besides the campfire or inside his tent—working on poultices and other medicines.

Lucius converses with him of course, but it always with a haze of anxiety and exhaustion. While the man had worked countless, sleepless hours in Askr, fieldwork combined with the threats of war and travel left him with little energy. Most conversations with him are simply one-word answers or brief sentences, punctuated with a yawn.

Naturally, Kiran tries to ease his burden, but he simply cannot keep up with Lucius’s output. Years of practice had left the other man with deft hands when it came to creating medicinal supplies. In comparison, his work, even with his time in the infirmary, is amateur.

Thus, for many reasons, it comes as relief when they arrive at Vida.

* * *

Vida, much like Hríd’s description is a remote castle, or more precisely, a fortress, nearer to the northwestern borders. Built into the side of the mountain, the path upward had been a steep one, a consequence of their primarily landbound forces.

Hríd had been apologetic of course.

“We used to be under foreign rule, and Vida was built by them as a result. It is an easy enough location to deploy troops from—near enough to the border to act as both a defensive fort and as a refuge for their traveling soldiers and merchants—especially with our land’s wyverns. It is a bit of a distance from our capital and from where we met—and I apologize for that—but it is one of the few locations in Nifl where Múspell would have not yet reached. Furthermore, many of the defensive mechanisms—the ballistae, the machicolations, among many other structures—are still functional which made this place an appealing decision for us at the time.”

Hríd, true to his nature as a scholar, continues to expound on the history of the fortress and on the history of Nifl’s occupation as they hike upwards along the road. The subjugation and tributes imposed upon the people, the suppression of religion and of tradition, and so forth.

“That is actually, in part, why religion and tradition are so highly valued around here; there is a fear of losing more than what we’ve already have.”

They are near the front of the formation this time. While a normally precarious position for a tactician, the high winds of the area made it all but impossible for anyone except for the most experienced of fliers to execute an ambush. Furthermore, grounded ambush would be foolish with the existence of Niflian patrols; Hríd had not brought the entirety of his forces with him after all. Some had remained at Vida as a precaution.

“One of my ancestors, Skuld, was said to have led our people to freedom. She, according to legend, prayed to our gods and received the blessing of premonition. With that, the help of her sisters, and the support of the people, she liberated our land from our oppressors. Ever since then, we have always selected women from our line as heir apparent.”

A laugh then, somewhat nervous, and sound dampened by the winds. Even with the relative tightness of their formation, it is difficult to hear anything except the whistling of the winds, the turning of wagon wheels, and the familiar drumbeat of hooves and wingbeats Only by virtue of his close proximity does Kiran hear Hríd’s words. Behind them, the rest of the group follows—Nifl’s royal guard, the Askrians, and the rest.

“It makes me uneasy—breaking tradition and the responsibility of everything—but it is exhilarating in a sense. I would be a part of history, not as a footnote, but as a leading participant if I were to succeed. Do not misunderstand me of course. I understand the gravity of the situation and what hinges on my success as a ruler, but the opportunity of becoming an integral component of history…truly remarkable.”

“However,” he continues,” would I truly make a great ruler? Even with our current circumstances, a sizable portion of the population still mistrusts me. To them, I—despite my blood and ties—am a foreigner, an upstart conqueror no different from the ones that have come before. To them, I am of only my father’s bloodline rather than a cumulation of both my mother’s and my father’s. To them, I am the mongrel that slaughtered the late queen, my mother.”

Another sigh, forlorn. Even without a clear look at his face, the emotion is apparent.

The dip of shoulders, the tiredness, the loneliness.

“You must be wondering about my openness with you, despite our status as strangers. We are outsiders to this land—I to Nifl and to the place of my upbringing and you to Zenith. No matter the coat or cap I wear, I will always be seen as someone else, someone that I am not. Perhaps I am too open, but that connection brings familiarity to me, as silly as it sounds. While I have confided my worries to Gunnthrá, and she has offered her comforts to me, she does not truly understand what it means to be an outsider. Even if she were, her gift would provide her allowances, an understanding and a solace that I will never experience.”

Hríd continues to speak, and the wind whirls around them, intensifying with the change in altitude. Whether he is speaking to only himself or to Kiran at this point, it is unclear.

“But, no matter my uncertainty, I must uphold the expectations of others and of myself. I have no other choice in this matter. No. Rather, I had willingly chosen my fate when I returned, without complaint, for my investiture. I have given up my right.”

It is difficult to hear him as this point, but Kiran strains to listen.

“Even if this is the bluster of a fool, I must believe, and I must act. That is my duty as a king.”

Around them, the wind turns, giggling and whistling their belittlements. Behind them, Kiran can hear the muffled shouts of the soldiers. Most likely, one of the wagon coverings had blown off into the abyss below.

Whether Hríd’s words are idealistic bravado or true resolve or simply a combination of both, Kiran does not know. He cannot ask.

The gales are loud, louder than the beating of his heart and Hríd’s next words, and they encompass the world around them.

Eventually, Hríd stills, and the procession behind him follows.

Vida, high gates and towers, has come into view.

* * *

“Macha will show you to your rooms.”

A tall woman with a button nose, thin lips, and brown, almond-shaped eyes. A beauty mark dots the corner of her left eye. Her long hair is held back in a braid, a necessity of her trade as an archer. She does not speak much as she leads them to their respective lodgings. As they pass the Niflian soldiers, Kiran can feel their curious and, at times, distrustful gaze upon them.

Their group dwindles slowly as Macha leads them forward, from the first floor to the second and to the third. As they arrive at each room, Macha pulls a key from her keyring and hands it to the room’s new resident. Despite the large number of keys dangling from her keyring, she never takes long to find the one she needs.

Finally, Macha reaches the end of the corridor and motions to Kiran.

His room, the final destination before Macha returns to her previous duties.

“If you need directions to the bathing facilities or help with procuring the waters from the hot spring, please ask any of our soldiers for aid.”

Blunt yet not unkind.

As she turns to leave, Kiran cannot help but to ask, “Why do you follow him?”

Vague, but still, she pauses in her steps. When her silence continues, Kiran almost clarifies, but she speaks before he can.

“He is sincere and educated. However, those traits, by themselves, would not make me follow him. While admirable, they do necessarily make a good king. Instead it is his message—the hope of and promise of change—he brings. For myself and my future, I _must_ believe in his promise, in the ideals and the future that his figure represents, no matter how unlikely the chances for fruition.”

She pauses, contemplative, before continuing, “I do not speak for anyone but myself when I say this. It is my reason and mine alone. For others, it may be religious devotion—as deigned by the Priestess—or merely pragmaticism. During times of crisis, it does one well to become close to His Majesty. Our people’s reasons vary greatly.”

She gives nod.

“Now, I must be going. My patrol is tonight, and I would like to rest before then.”

With those words in the air, she leaves, her duties done for now.

* * *

Despite the events around them, life goes on as it always does.

Idyllic yet flawed—possessing of the looming knowledge of war and aware of the contradictory nature of peace—that is the core of Vida.

Vida, despite its status as a fortress, is much like Askr Castle and its surrounding town. The people, soldier and civilian alike, barter with each other, trading patrol shifts and rarities—fruits like clementines and apples, scavenged clothes and cloth, necessities like lye soap and grain—and jest, humor about the day’s happenings or perhaps the sharing of a previously heard joke.

On the children, they play as they normally would—boys and girls roughhousing, playing as knight and lord or lady, and so forth. Balls made of wadded paper or spare cloth scraps wrapped in animal hide, branches and commandeered clothesline poles as swords and wooden pot lids as shields, rope utilized as jump ropes or in games like tug o’ war.

Anything that could be used or spared, they borrow for play.

They play until their mothers call, or the sun nearly sets. For the younger children, it is easier to call them in hours before the curfew arrives.

But still, the air of uneasiness arrives once the children sleep and the moon rises above, her light and her song foreboding. When the day’s duties end and distraction ceases, worries proliferate unbidden.

The fear of loss; the fear of death; the fear of uncertainty.

The torches are set alight and carried in the hands of the patrol—each bundled in his or her coat and armor. Uneven steps and unused to their garb, they clink lightly in their armor, a mixture of hand-me-downs and freshly sculpted metal.

From noble to peasant, from man to woman, and from greenhorn to veteran, they march side by side; some driven by the song of necessity and dread and others by the siren’s ballad of valor and fairy tales.

Upon the stone of Vida, solemnity then pervades and war encroaches.

Tomorrow’s tasks come as a respite.

Simply, that is war.

* * *

“We will have everything ready by tomorrow.”

Hríd’s voice comes from ahead.

It has been a little less than a month since their arrival in Vida. Since then, Kiran has been working odd jobs around the fortress—a weekly stint as a cook in the dining hall, maintaining weapons (or more accurately, oiling the swords and axes under Seliph’s and Hana’s supervision), and running messages between Anna and the other leaders and tacticians; primarily Hríd.

Today’s message is one addressed to Alfonse. Overall, it is a difficult request.

The man had become difficult to find since their arrival in Vida, not out of choice but necessity. As a critical figure of the Order, his duties exceeds that of the average soldier’s.

Record-keeping, organizing the patrols alongside Fjorm, and a plethora of other tasks, varying from the minor to the major and the mandatory and the self-imposed. His duties simply extended pass what a person of his age should be expected to deal with.

Moreover, his personality did not particularly help matters. Alfonse never seemed quite content unless he was busy. Helping to direct business in Askr (and now Vida), training Nifl’s newly enlisted, anything that could occupy his hands and his mind.

For him, there always seems to be another task that needs to be completed.

Thus, Alfonse could never quite be found in one place for long. The aftermath of his work certainly, but the man himself is difficult to find.

“What’s ready?”

Governed by curiosity, Kiran could not quite contain his question.

“The prostheses. Alfonse requested them the day after we arrived; though, the carvers and smiths had only finished fashioning them yesterday. I was just informing Alfonse of their completion.”

Prostheses. While the prostheses would not be suitable for the more strenuous conditions of warfare, they would be a help in daily life. Though, Hríd’s willingness to divert resources for a situation of lower priority is rather surprising. With Vida’s relatively remote location and the threat of Múspell, utilizing resources in such a manner spoke well of Hríd’s character. Though perhaps some would call him a bleeding heart.

His decision did mean that the scouts and patrols would have to gather more materials and that the craftsmen lost time that could be spent repairing and crafting weapons and armor.

However, that is a matter that does not concern Kiran.

“And Alfonse? Where is he? I have a message for him.”

Without looking up from his current project, Hríd replies, “He left right after I finished speaking. I think in the direction of the dining hall?”

Kiran nods and thanks him. He doesn’t particularly mind Hríd’s inattentiveness. The other man had been busy—organizing and cataloging their supplies. As he leaves, Kiran hears the distinctive crack of a crate opening, a thump, and then cursing.

Hríd could be rather ungainly at times.

The trip to the dining hall turns out to be a dud. By the time Kiran had arrived, Alfonse had already left, having completed his task—the delivery of ingredients for today’s dinner. However, thankfully, one of the cooks had seen the direction that Alfonse had left in.

Today’s message is particularly difficult to deliver.

The training hall. The stables. The civilian quarters. Alfonse’s trail today takes Kiran all over Vida.

No matter how quickly his steps seem to take him, he always misses Alfonse by minutes.

Finally, after hours of searching and backtracking, Kiran finds himself in front of the fortress’s chapel. Its doors are plain, carved from wood and lacking in any embellishments or identifying features. Only with directions from one of the civilians—a woman with hair as red as the sunset—had he been able to find the chapel.

Hesitation, dread, and paradoxically, apathy.

Those are the emotions he feels.

Certainly, he remembers his calls to a higher power—to Adonai, to anyone existing and willing to listen, whether for amusement as the Olympians often did or for concern as some divinities are inclined toward. But, that had been a month ago.

As it often does, faith only comes to the faithless in times of desperation, dispersing like leaves in autumn once danger passes.

But now, he only feels confliction.

Should he enter? Certainly, sense tells him it is a necessity, but sentimentality refuses.

He shuffles awkwardly, still not yet entering. Perhaps he could wait for Alfonse to exit? Though quickly as that thought enters his head, he dismisses it. There is no guarantee that Alfonse is even in the chapel.

He does not particularly want to wait for hours and asking someone else to check seems strange, embarrassing and inefficient when one considers the apparent easiness of the action.

All he needs to do is open the door and peek in. Alfonse is not particular inconspicuous; his hair color—comparable to a stormy sea marked by the beams of an awakening sun—and Askrian armor, plates of gold and patches of white, are distinctive.

Open the door and look.

It is simple, but still, the idea shakes him.

Memories and fears—simple and frivolous compared to his previous experiences in Zenith—sprout.

But still, they grasp at his hands coyly and whisper their promises.

“No need to look,” they say, “stay here with us.”

Yet, he cannot.

The world moves around him, and he must follow, as all creatures must.

Thus, with shaking hands, he grasps the door’s handle and pulls.

With the opening of the gate, they dissipate, not completely gone but simply reburied.

He steps in.

* * *

Much like the door, the inside of the chapel is plain—no stained glass, no noticeable ornamentations, only pews; an altar, and a few candles, countable on one hand, set in their holders.

Nothing overly grandiose or speaking to wealth. It is a consequence of Vida’s location and Nifl’s current occupation. For some, religion certainly offers peace of mind and perhaps peace of soul, but peace meant nothing if the fortress’s defenses are penetrated. Thus, Hríd had seen fit to equip the chapel with minimal adornments.

Even then, a nervousness pervades Kiran, his eyes shifting. It is not crime to be here, but to him, it is judgement.

No sanctuary, no respite from the world’s demands, no amnesty.

Rather than a chantry, it is a courtroom, occupied by an unseen jury.

Thankfully, his eyes spot a familiar shade of blue kneeling in one of the middle rows, near the center aisle. Kiran’s steps are clunky, a result of his own nervous disposition and the natural hardness of the stone flooring. They resound loudly in his ears and in the quietness of the otherworld’s domain—reality or perception, he cannot tell.

The murmurs of the people around him resound—prayers reverberating in the stillness of sanctum.

Curiosity guides the human soul; fear drives the human condition; guilt reminds the living.

Heads bowed and hands tied, their lips—some moving, others knit in silence—speak, and the pleas and questions ring, bells tolling.

Questions of survival, bargains of trade, and so forth.

_Why did I live? Why did they die instead of me? If I promise to live a virtuous life hence forth, will I survive?_

The mass continues, unperturbed and immutable.

Discordant, earthly, and unfit for the world shared by those above—those with no understanding or need to understand and kept safe in their unchanging abodes.

Those are the expectations set forth for him and for those below.

Thankfully, he does not need to speak to catch Alfonse’s attention. As he arrives next to the other man, Alfonse—still kneeling and hands clasped in prayer—turns his gaze aside and toward him before returning to his previous position, head bent forward and eyes gently closed.

It is an acknowledge, one that Kiran understands. His father had been the much the same when it came to this sort of matter—swift acknowledgment and then a return to task.

Minutes turn to eternity before Alfonse shifts once more to stand. Turning to face Kiran, he motions with his hand toward the door, and Kiran nods.

It is only polite for the other residents of the chapel. Like Alfonse had been before, their heads are bowed in prayer and their lips move silently in both praise and pleas.

For Kiran, there is a sense of relief when the chapel’s door closes behind them. The air lightens, and the tenseness disappears.

Thankfully, Alfonse does not comment on the matter. Though, Kiran cannot give him the same courtesy. He, outside of the occasional glance at dinner, on the occasions that Alfonse actually deigned to show up, had not seen the other man in weeks.

“New look?”

There is a pause before Alfonse nods.

Using his index finger, Alfonse readjusts his mask. It is not a particularly ornate piece. Instead, it is simply white, perhaps crafted from spare cotton. It hooks behind his ears and covers his cheeks and nose alongside his jaw.

“It helps to ease the children’s fears.”

Mild amusement in his tone—an inside joke—though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Anna asked to see you tomorrow, before sunset.”

Awkwardness abound, but how did one expect Kiran to respond? Alfonse, despite their familiarity, seems adverse to conversation at the moment. Silence seems to be the most polite response.

Despite this, however, they end up walking together toward the dining hall. Silence did not necessarily mean discomfort or disdain, and there are only so many paths after all. It would not make sense to take separate ways.

The hallways are rather sparse, lacking in the normal bustle of Vida. Though, it isn’t surprising. It is dinnertime after all. A majority of Vida’s residents would be currently present in the dining hall; everyone else would be scattered—perhaps in their rooms, outside, or simply attending to matters elsewhere.

Despite Kiran’s initial awkwardness, the walk isn’t particularly uncomfortable or awkward. It is merely quiet, solemn. Alfonse seems to be disinclined towards speech, and Kiran has nothing of interest to fill the silence with. Certainly, he could talk of his errands, but Alfonse is a busy man nowadays; he most likely would be disinterested in being reminded of his own work and their current situation.

When they arrive, the dining hall is nearly empty, almost devoid of people. Only those on kitchen duty remain. It isn’t due to a lack of hunger—food is a comfort, and the daily rations are well-coveted—but because of time. Because of their relatively slow pace and the distance from the chapel to the dining hall, Kiran and Alfonse had arrived near the end of the dinner period.

Thankfully, however, one of the cooks arrives rather promptly with the leftovers of tonight’s dinner. Perhaps he had been expectant of Alfonse’s arrival?

One thick slice of wholemeal bread, one wooden bowl of potato and carrot soup, one sugar plum, and one glass of water for each of them.

The portions are decent, nothing as elaborate as his own world’s meals, but they would ease the feeling of hunger, not enough to eliminate it entirely but just enough for one to proceed through the day’s work.

The soup is rich—a bit watery but serviceable. A small chunk of potato floats between bits of orange, an island upon thin broth. The bread is somewhat chewy, but a quick soak in the broth solves it quickly enough. On the sugar plum, it is a treat, the meal component that Kiran saves for last.

There is simply something extravagant about having a sweet after a savory meal.

All things considering, Hríd had paid ample attention to the meals served. Perhaps it is due to the blending of his own upper-class upbringing ad his recent struggles, but Hríd understands the necessity of a decent meal. Morale could only stay so high upon words and necessity alone.

Mealtime is a quiet affair, lacking in the banter that a filled dinner hall would bring. No chastising by a worried mother to her child, no bawdy jokes from the soldiers, nothing. Only the faint clinking of spoons and glass.

Though, Kiran could not help but stare when Alfonse pushes his mask down. Certainly, he had seen the scarring before, but it had never been at a close distance. It had only been quick glances, never enough to understand the true severity of it.

Indents and ridges of scarring—dark lines intertwined with unfaded red—mar previously clear white skin. In particular, a thick scar runs from the corner of Alfonse’s lip to his left ear. There is no symmetry to it, no prettiness or neatness. It is rough, spreading and uneven like the fractures of a stone, and difficult to look at.

Rather than a symbol of Alfonse’s courageousness, it only serves to reminds Kiran of the devastation.

As the minutes pass and the bowl depletes, Kiran expects mealtime to continue their trend of quietness. Alfonse certainly seems focused on his meal, and Kiran does not want to interrupt the serenity of the occasion. For him, it would only feel wrong.

Thus, Alfonse’s voice, smooth and melancholic, comes as a surprise.

“Do you think we made the right choice coming here?”

“I don’t know,” Kiran replies after a pause.

It is the truth, his truth. If he had been asked at the beginning of the year, he would have perhaps replied with a resolute affirmation. But now, it is only ambiguity, the cloak that experience and hindsight wear.

There are advantages and disadvantages to their decision.

A chance to uproot the Múspellians before they took hold, a way to avoid conflict on (potentially) two or all fronts, and so forth.

Earlier this year, Kiran would have been able to state them, objective and disconnected but now, emotion clouds his judgement.

The iron-tinged smell of blood—not unlike when his mother brought home freshly butchered beef from the local farms—the cries, animalistic and uncivilized, and the abandonment of honor and chivalry.

Kiran remembers the sights well. They etch themselves onto his dreams and seep their poison, lines upon copper and dipped into memory’s acid.

He remembers; he remembers; he remembers.

The swing of a commandeered mace onto a fallen enemy’s skull—the helmet, the bone gives easily enough, sinking inward like a poorly made cake. The surprise and then the agony as the arrows pierce through the small openings where each piece of armor connected and through the eye sockets; not enough to kill upon entry but enough to maim and stun for a subsequent killing blow, the compassion and pity that merely disintegrated, discarded as easily as one would slip off winter’s coat, as base instincts and fear took over.

The visions continue, unbidden and relentless.

The sounds etch themselves onto his soul deeply, a silent, intimate song in the light of the merciless moon.

Upon the sleepless poppies and where the Sun rises and sets, both God the Father and his children are sinners, equalized by inaction and action, apathy and volatility.

But perhaps, that is what makes a god.

_Half Gods are worshipped with wine and flowers. Real Gods require blood._

He remembers the words now, half-remembered within the pages and pages of myth, novel, and poems that he has read.

Through violence and fear, men and gods alike become immortalized, imprinted upon the recollections of the survivors and the romances of the successors.

The rage of Achilles, the sacrifice of Roland and his paladins, the conquests of Alexander the Great.

Violent, repugnant, horrific, yet inevitable.

That is the history of man and god alike.

Man is god, and God is man.

“My father, during his youth, led an army, against our northern neighbor.” Alfonse continues as he stirs his remaining soup, half-eaten potato bobbing alongside bits of carrot with each swirl. “It was grand victory after grand victory, or so I was told as a child. Every year, in the capital, we celebrate his accomplishments with a week of festivities—public banquets, lights and decorations, and dancing.”

Another swirl of his spoon, even and light.

“I lost over four hundred of my men. Despite my youth, they—men and women both younger and older than me—gave me their trust and their lives.”

Alfonse’s movement stills, and his fingers tighten around the metal. However, his tone never changes, retaining the previous consistency and volume—forlorn.

“And yet, I failed. I let them die. When considerations for the embarkment into Nifl ensued, I pushed for an aggressive approach. Would it not be simpler to push back the Múspellians than to defend for potentially years? Especially with their unfamiliarity with Nifl’s deeper reaches? We had Fjorm’s expertise and Gunnthrá’s guidance after all. Likewise, it would ease the suffering and worries of those inhabiting near the borders.”

Even with the content of his words, his tone still does not differ.

“However, I had also hoped to obtain some semblance of glory—on my own merits rather than as King Gustav’s eldest. Selfish, but that had been a part of my hopes for this excursion. Human fallacy or a foible as you most likely consider it. But still, do not think that glory had been my main consideration; it had not.”

Alfonse lifts his gaze to Kiran.

“In Nifl, I planned our movements to the best of my knowledge and with consideration of our intel. Yet still, many of my fellow soldiers are dead or crippled now because of my immaturity. Many of them held the same hopes and sensibilities as I did—glory, salvation, and optimism. We chose this path, and as a result, more sacrifices have been lynched for death’s carriage.”

His gaze is steady—hard—as he continues.

“I ask you again, not as a friend but as a fellow combatant, did I—did we—make the right choice in coming here? Is sacrifice the only way to advance in this war? Or could we have chosen a different way to proceed? If we had, would we have lost more lives? Not just soldiers, but civilians and children alike? Would we have been pushed farther into our own borders? Did we choose the right path?”

His voice and eyes are steady, but his fingers shake slightly, not in dread but in fury. Whether it is against himself, Múspell, or a combination, Kiran is not quite sure.

Silence pervades for what feels like minutes—in reality, seconds—before Kiran replies again.

Foolish but honest. There simply isn’t much else to say.

“I don’t know.”

Repetitive and trite, but Kiran truly does not know. Much like Alfonse, he is at a loss. There are many paths—decisions—to take, but much like everything else in life, the ideal decision only becomes apparent when one experiences all of them, an impossibility for all but the omniscient.

It makes her gift a blessing, yet she curses it.

Though before the conversation can continue, one of the cooks—an elderly woman with gnarled hands freckled cheeks, and grayed hair styled into a loose bun—arrives.

A small bowl of dried apple slices—no more than three, a plentiful number in their current situation—sits in her hands.

Despite her appearance, her voice is youthful, vibrant, when she speaks.

“We want to offer you a small token of our gratitude for what you do for us. We appreciate the help you do around here and the protection you’ve provided.”

She stretches out her hands to place the bowl upon the table, but Alfonse shakes his head.

“It is no problem. I do not need compensation for what merely are my expected duties. However, I thank you graciously for your kindness.”

She nods, admiring of his generosity, before leaving, taking the bowl with her.

Afterwards, Alfonse turns his head to face the still-sitting Kiran.

“Your answer is one I expect, but still, I wish it had been different—even if it only the illusion of comfort.”

A small laugh then, not particularly angry or particularly bitter. It simply is.

“I only wanted to chat, and I got ahead of myself.”

“It’s fine.”

It is enough for the moment to pass, for the intensity of Alfonse’s gaze to pass.

Kiran expects dinner to continue in silence again—that is how these occasions normally go—but Alfonse speaks suddenly again.

“It is prying of me, but what is your world like? I have rarely heard you speak of it. How are the people, the lands, the customs? If you do not mind my inquisitiveness.”

Perhaps it is an attempt to lighten the mood or to change the subject, but it relieves Kiran, nonetheless. It is something to take his mind off of Nifl and its troubles.

Kiran’s words come easier than he expects. Perhaps time had aged him, loosened his tongue and dulled his nervousness like wine, but he speaks.

It isn’t anything particularly private. He talks of the flowers, seasonal plants and annuals alike, of the surroundings—crop-laden farms with their cawing hens and shrill roosters and bounding dogs and mooing cattle—and of the buildings: the library with its deer-marked doors, the stores, and so forth.

He talks of the heavens—the clear, wonderful sky with its blueness and its idleness—the green grasses, earth’s natural pillow, and the elegant perseverance of the sun; rising and falling with a sigh each day.

Dawn comes; dusk sets; twilight gleams.

It is a half-lie—fantasy weaved with reality like a tapestry—but it is enough for now.

The comfort of a world they cannot experience is enough.

It is a waking daydream.

* * *

Alarm sets in when Lucius’s head thumps against the wood of the desk, knocking a few glasses onto the floor and shattering them—a crystalline imitation of snowfall. Petals and herbs come soon after, jostled from their position on the table and inside the now broken bottles.

Kiran is not quite sure when he moves, but he finds himself beside the other man, his hands placed on gently on Lucius’s back. The shards crunch underneath his boots, and the mixtures—serpent’s greens, phoenix’s reds, and leviathan’s blues—soak into his boots, but he does not pay it mind. Worry overcomes concern for injury.

Cleanup could come later.

He worries, frets as it should be called, when Lucius doesn’t stir at his touch. Tonight, they are alone in the infirmary, in the hours before daybreak. Undoubtedly, he needs to find help—his own skills are amateurish, unfit to diagnose and to heal—but what if Lucius’s ailment were to worsen in his absence?

Exhaustion plays a part, certainly, but Lucius has his sicknesses, and on those, he is secretive.

(Strange. Strange it is how even now in this moment of disquiet, he notices the fineness and softness of the other man’s hair. The sensation delights his senses, and the touch trills at his heart. It is not his greatest concern by far, but it is a peculiarity—his own awareness.)

Seconds pass, and Kiran almost leaves for the door, but as his hands begin to move, Lucius shifts; lifting his head groggily. Lucius runs a hand through his hair, rearranging the strands into something more presentable. There is no comment for Kiran to remove his hands. Lucius only shifts further, straightening his back.

He gives a cursory glance around, noting the destroyed glasses and the now unusable concoctions.

His voice is diffident as he speaks, “What ails me has pass. If I have brought any trouble to you, I apologize.”

Brief but sincere even with the subject matter.

That is Lucius.

And as it always is with Lucius in these sorts of matters, he attempts to return to his work. Attempting to stand almost brings him to his knees and onto the fragments below. Only Kiran’s hold keeps him steady.

Unnecessary contrition and unnecessary penance.

“Maybe you should retire for the night.”

The night is the same as it is in Askr—moon gleaming outside and overhead alongside her companions, stillness abound as it was for the Three Kings, and the mundane ruling—but tonight in Vida, the routine changes.

Lucius shakes his head and attempts to step over the glass. He stumbles, and Kiran steadies him again.

“You’ve done a lot for everyone already. One night—or even one day really—of rest won’t change that. You need rest as well.”

Another stumble, but Kiran catches him before his knees meet the ground. The liquid seeps into his boots, but that does not concern him, not now anyway.

“Everyone worries about you.”

Another stumble, more willful than the last but still weaker than what Lucius should be capable of. Much like the last time, Kiran stops his fall.

“Please.”

The word comes more as a plea—as a whisper—than as a statement, but Lucius, eyes intent, turns to face him. Seconds pass, silence burns like the wick of a candle, and Kiran expects another refusal or perhaps a stumble.

But instead, Lucius nods, eyes shrouded and body language pensive.

Kiran carefully guides him over the glass and the liquid—they, or the morning shift, could always clean it in the morning, during daylight—and to Lucius’s room.

Because of Lucius’s condition and his own concern, their steps are slow, taking minutes more than a normal trip should. The torches in the hallway flicker along the gray stone walls, wisps curious about tonight’s travelers.

Eventually, they arrive. The key unlocks the door with a click, and Kiran helps Lucius to his bed; neatly made and most likely, rarely used. Slumber arrives swiftly once the man collapses onto the bed, and Kiran gently pulls the thin covers over him. It would not do for the man to catch a cold.

There is no thanks, but Kiran does not expect any nor does he desire any.

Tonight, he stays—a chair his temporary roost—and observes, half-awake and drifting upon the boundaries between the waking and the sleeping.

It is his gratitude and his worries that push him towards such intimacy.

Tonight, he stays—tender two instead of solitary one.

And in the morning, respite comes for the weary.

* * *

“Do you think we made the right choice?”

Today, the question is his—not Alfonse’s—and the answer he receives differs from the one he provided.

“I do.”

Anna’s reply comes without hesitation. Today, she wears a mid-sleeved top and long pants. It isn’t a particularly practical attire for Nifl’s climate, but they had been chosen for their looseness, as to not aggravate her still healing wounds. Though, she would be confined to the inside of Vida as to lessen the chill.

Lines of white bandages run underneath her top, and stamped upon her right cheek is a thick pad, covering a dull-colored welt. Her nose crooks slightly, having been reset in a hurry. For others, it would perhaps damage their loveliness, but for Anna; it, combined with her accent, only enhances her presence—the image of a country beauty, raised in hardship and eager for a lighthearted tussle.

Magic could heal in an instant or near-instant, but more often than not, natural healing is the preferable—if slower—option. Healing by unnatural means comes with its own set of problems; certainly, magical healing is quick, but its reliability always depended on both the healer’s skill and mien and the patient’s receptiveness.

It requires a complete understanding of both one’s self and the truths of others.

Otherwise, the magic becomes a poison—invasive and detrimental. An incorrect application could lead to an overgrowth of cells, a rejection by the individual’s immune system, or even simply, the aging of the patient’s body.

To heal by magic is to resist the gods’ demands, and to take the reins from the natural cycle.

There is a reason why most mages prefer to study one or the other, either to hurt or to heal. It is merely easier to focus on one school’s demands rather than to mix—to confound—one’s self with two different requirements.

The basics remain the same—focus upon the conduit and expel—but it is easier read than achieved. 

As easily as magic destroys, from the novice’s Fire to the expert’s Thoron, it can mend. From the same well, both destruction and creation swell and overflow. They ebb and flow as the tides do. For the mage, it is a task that requires both control and awareness.

Upon a battlefield and under the stress of a patient’s potential death, it is much more difficult to resist Pan’s pipes.

Thus, Anna had acquiesced for only the most minimal of treatments, just enough to allow for her to continue. Though perhaps, compassion plays a part in it as well. Much like Alfonse, she had refused the healers’ longer procedures. Instead, she had directed them towards the other injured.

(Despite what her occasionally free-spirited nature would imply, she is not foolish. She would let a healer attend to her before they left Vida. Her decision to let her body naturally recover is one made to minimize the risks.)

“Why?”

“Because Askr cannot afford to fight a defensive war.” Anna’s voice is patient. “Many of our treaties center on trade and the economy rather than conflict; almost everything else is centered on nonintervention. If Askr were to be besieged from both the west and east, we would not have enough allies to withstand the assault. Moreover, our morale would fall. A war cannot be fought without resolve.”

A sigh then.

“We have fought Embla for years, and for many of those belonging to the younger generation, especially those inhabiting areas far from the western front, they have never experienced the brunt of war. Famine, rationing, and the occasional bandit raid, yes. But war? Many of them have never experienced it firsthand.”

“What about everyone who died here in Nifl then? Why did you approve our excursion?”

Perhaps it is accusatory, but the question lingers on Kiran’s mind. While King Gustav’s approval is necessary for an official excursion, Anna had been the one to send the letter. Without her word, the Order would have never been sent to Nifl. At the very least, not with their current size or as early as they were.

She pauses then, collecting her thoughts, before continuing, “It is an expected part of war—death. We simply have to honor their memory. That is the best we can do. And as I said before, I approved our expedition because of necessity.”

It is a calculated answer, bland in some aspects, and it infuriates him.

“I’m not asking about that. I’m asking for _your_ reasons.”

He doesn’t mean to raise his voice, but it happens anyway.

“I was seventeen when the leader of my regiment—the previous commander—died. We weren’t even in Emblian territory then—maybe a few miles from the border?”

Her voice is flat, not aggravated or amused, simply flat as if reading aloud from a newspaper.

“He was blond—wore his hair in a ponytail in the style I wear now—and he loved sweets. Chocolates, jam-filled buns, hard candies, anything that remotely held a trace of sweetness. Always wanted to share them with everyone as well. Incredible man in both leadership and character.”

Discomfort fills him. He isn’t quite sure where Anna is going with this, but it certainly isn’t anywhere good.

“He died because I hesitated. It wasn’t even some major battle or espionage mission, just some routine checkups on the bordering towns—wasn’t even one of the ones on the farther reaches. At the time, I refused to kill a kid, hesitated in nocking an arrow. Favored the bow more than the axe then, ya know? Easier to not see their eyes, and I was already a whizz because of my childhood; my aunt taught me everything she knew before I left. Still, a bit strange considering the sort we hire now, right? Nino and some of the younger soldiers and all? I joined at fourteen as well. Three years too, and a kid made me stop?”

She shifts. “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna ramble my entire life to ya. Just the parts that will help you understand.”

Another shift and a hand tugs gently at her bandages, not enough to dislodge them but enough to readjust them slightly. Most likely, discomfort and itching from the skin mending irritated her.

“Well, the kid—the girl—was seven, nine at most, Emblian. We got those quite frequently back in the day when the Emperor still reigned—some refugees, some invaders. It was always a mix and a part of the reason why our borders are so tightly guarded nowadays. Despite what Princess Veronica has done so far, she is nowhere near as horrific as her father was. Excessive taxation and extortion of both Embla and its colonies, pillaging and raiding neighboring countries, and so forth. Almost everything you can think of, he did. ‘Course rumors and all did elevate him to a boogeyman status, but for the most part, it was accurate.

“Anyway, when we arrived. Everything was…off to say the least. The people were afraid—not a big surprise considering the time and their location—but it was in how they went about it. They were _too_ hospitable and _too_ accommodating. Furthermore, the numbers. Where was everybody? It wasn’t a ghost town, but it wasn’t what we expected—even with the war going and the rationing situation then.

“The commander and the veterans noticed immediately of course—thought it was a setup for an ambush—but we didn’t act immediately. What could we do? Interrogate them and potentially worsen the situation? Our fellow countrymen? So, we initially went along with it. ‘Course some of the others tried to discreetly help them, but that isn’t pertinent to this story.

“And we were right, it was an ambush. At dinner, the Emblians came. Some had disguised themselves as villagers, and others simply arrived in the night. It was no wonder why some of the villagers were tense. To be surrounded by the enemy? That wasn’t the trouble. My commander and the others instantly knew what to do. Barely any casualties on our side—civilian or otherwise. The problems came during the final throes of the engagement.

“I…I was about to finish off one of the opposing troops; he was around my age from appearances—dark hair, round face, and all that. Well…his sister—or perhaps niece? They had to have been close for her to do what she did—ran in front of him and pleaded for me not to kill him. Couldn’t hear her of course—archer and all—but I could see her lips moving. Perhaps if it were a fairy tale, I could have drawn some sort of courage and shot without hitting her or found another solution or perhaps someone else could have killed her and her brother for me.

“But…I didn’t. I didn’t even act. I froze. Couldn’t make the shot. She just seemed so young”—Anna sighs again—“It’s different when you’re fighting someone who could be your younger sister. All these thoughts suddenly come into your mind, and you stop.

“It was a mistake. In those few moments of hesitation, I didn’t notice the spell heading toward me—Bolganone. A bit silly right? That strong and flashy of a spell, and I was too focused on a child.”

She hesitates before continuing, “My commander…he ended up pushing me out of the way. I can still remember his final moments. There weren’t any final words or anything like that; it was only surprise—from the sensation perhaps—and a sense of inevitability on his face before the flames took away almost everything of him. Fifteen years later, and I still remember that moment clear as day.”

A mirthless laugh next, low and bitter.

“He was quite a looker. At least, that’s what I got from the chatter around the barracks. I think he enjoyed the rumors as well to an extent—bit of a peacock he was, but he was goodhearted. At the very least, he enjoyed all the gifts he got, always expensive baked goods and candies and whatever flowers were in season.

“After the battle and when the fire died out, there was nothing left of that except a charred skeleton, bits of hair, and melting armor—melded onto bone and weeping. And of course, Nóatún. Nóatún…of course, it wouldn’t be destroyed. It is one of our kingdom’s regalia, crafted by our forebearers. Unlike us, it is built to last.”

“What happened to the girl?” Kiran could not help but blurt out. Perhaps it is insensitive, but Anna’s words so far unsettle him both in its unusualness—Anna usually was never this serious—and its contents.

“I don’t know. Stupid, right? She disappeared in the chaos. I still remember her, however. Long dark hair done into pigtails, freckled face, and a blue-dyed cotton dress with crudely sown sunflowers. Her brother wasn’t among the dead either. I still have no clue what happened to them, or if they’re still even alive.

“I still don’t understand what Alnus saw in me. At the time, I wasn’t much. Sure, I could shoot, and I understood the land fairly well, but so did a lot of the volunteers and draftees. I was objectively worth less to the Order than he was; King Gustav lost a lot of faith in us after that debacle too, and I was almost dismissed—rightfully—for my incompetence as well. It was a lot of trouble for everyone.

“But still, you must be wondering why I’m telling you this, right?”

At his nod, Anna continues, “That battle is the reason for why I act as I do. I don’t want anyone else to suffer. If war were to ignite on both the western and eastern fronts, we would be catapulted back into the era of the Emperor—war on all fronts. I don’t doubt that the northern and southern kingdoms would attempt to profit; they didn’t exactly receive favorable conditions when we met for the ceasefire. Alfonse and Sharena as well…they’re still young. They don’t truly understand the necessity of sacrifice or the actual cost of war, not yet anyway. I’d like to keep it that way for them—and for everyone else. It may seem cruel to you, but our losses now would pale in comparison to what would happen if Múspell gained a tactical foothold.”

She folds her arms over her chest. “This got quite dark, didn’t it? Sorry about that, but you did ask, and I didn’t want to exactly lie, ya know?

But, it is getting late, and dinner’s almost here. We should be going. Unless you want to mayhap join Alfonse? He’s rather difficult nowadays—almost a shadow really. Always a chance rather than a certainty if you can find him.”

Anna doesn’t leave much room for comment before she pulls him along outside of her office and to the dining hall.

The door closes behind them with a heavy thud.

* * *

Today when he exits the dining hall and makes for his room, he takes a detour instead of his normal route. Though, perhaps _detour_ is a rather large understatement. His steps take him from the dining hall to the stables to the northeastern watchtower and around the rest of Vida.

On most nights, he would have taken a more direct, less convoluted route to his room, but today, his mind wanders. Perhaps if he were still in Askr, he would find something, anything, to amuse—to distract —himself with. If that failed, he would have simply hole himself up until the problem passed. But much like everything else lately, it doesn’t quite feel right; or rather, that sort of act doesn’t quite suit him entirely, not as he is now.

Instead, the words and thoughts tumble, cascading like spring rain and lingering as the scent of jasmine would, and sleep’s promises loom—doubt and dwelsinge alike or perhaps Ephialtes’s visitation.

Rumination ails the living, and the unconscious torments the unfortunate.

No mercy would be found in either abode, but at the very least, the waking world would offer choice.

Walking through the hallways, he passes a variety of people. Some wave and call out their greetings, brief yet friendly, and others simply float by, adrift in their own reveries and apprehensions—more akin to summer’s nightly court of fireflies, each brightly blinking their own tune before straying, than ships passing.

As the minutes and then hours pass, the people dwindle, each returning to their rooms or to other duties, and the corridors become lonesome, dreary as some forgotten tomb of some king or pharaoh or another, until he is the only one left wandering. His steps echo, notes of a solitary song, until it wearies him. Human necessity diminishes his spirit, and sweet-tempered slumber beckons, her song more captivating than any that Apollo’s tortoise-shelled lyre could produce.

When Kiran arrives at the northwestern tower, he stops at the foot of its staircase. There is no fear of encountering anyone else. Niles favors the eastern tower for his moongazing endeavors—according to Corrin anyway—and Ishtar prefers to roam the lower levels of the fortress rather than the upper floors. For everyone else, they would most likely be on the lower floors or in their rooms.

On the soldiers, many prefer to man the other towers—a superstitious fear resulting from some ghost tale concerning the locale. They would not abandon the post, but it is certainly a shift that many arrive tardy for, always a few minutes or even ten if it were someone particularly flighty.

He fears, but only for a moment, the possibility of a mystical terror—gargoyles, specters, or some other Romantic fright—melts in the face of ill dream’s grasp.

Imagination—that is certainly preferable.

Thus, the ascent is met with the quietness of the world and disturbed only by his steps, clumsily human. They breach the silence—the calm—of the world like a fishing lure bobbing upon the surface of lake. Up and below, the piece floats until it sinks entirely.

Above, the chorus calls, and below, the orchestra plays—stirring the world to action and to awe, to delight and to horror.

No phantom, no Spirit, nothing else but the mortal could.

Such is the way of knowledge, no specter could terrorize the mind as actuality.

He doesn’t expect to find anyone else, figment or otherwise, but he does.

“—avors you over us! You aren’t even her brother!”

A woman’s voice, muffled by the stone, and then the slam of a door. Flashes of ghastly visage enter his mind, and he stills, astonished and tense.

But, it is only Fjorm, lips set tightly into a frown and eyes tinged red. She brushes past him briskly, right shoulder bumping into his because of the narrowness of the staircase. Her posture is taut as she moves, and she quickly disappearing around the corner.

Kiran almost follows after her, before deciding against it. She isn’t likely to divulge her troubles. That is simply who she is—guarded yet volatile. Instead, he continues upward and through the door.

A rush of wind meets him with a caress, tousling dark hair and powdering white cheeks pink with cold’s blush. Shivering lightly, Kiran pulls his cloak closer to himself; it isn’t quite as pristine as when he first received it, but it warms him, nonetheless.

Overhead, the full moon hangs, a gardenia of silver flowering in the gardens of the divine—flushes of meadow‘s green interlaid with blooms of violet and shores of dusk blue. Speckling the scenery, the stars glimmer white—virtue’s lily and seraph’s snowdrop. Amongst the waters and blooms, milky white koi swim downward stream before disappearing underneath the dim of night’s cover—shooting stars having faded.

Underneath the moonlight, as much as he expected, is Hríd, gazing upwards and forearms resting upon the battlement’s merlons. Gjöll rests in its sheath at his waist, and the breeze ruffles his hair, silvery strands fluttering gently as a butterfly’s wings would. Unlike Fjorm, he lacks his normal armor; instead, only a simple turtleneck and pants cover his muscular frame.

Despite the noise Kiran’s boots make, Hríd does not turn to face him. Instead, his gaze remains fixed upon the moon. Reaching the spot besides the other man, Kiran places his arms on the merlons in imitation of Hríd’s and looks upward.

Tonight, the world is lovely.

Eventually, Hríd speaks, each word bringing a sprig of white breath, sprouting and then quickly withering.

“As a youth, I used to look up at the moon every night and wonder if the gods resided above upon the moon. I even asked my uncle for a spyglass once to try and catch a glimpse of them. Of course, I did want it for other reasons as well, but that was rather silly of me, right?”

A sigh then, and Hríd, never breaking his gaze, leans forward, resting his chin upon his palm.

“Now, I don’t even know if they’re watching over us. Blasphemous of me, perhaps, but would they really _want_ to watch over us with how we act? We all live upon the same soil under the same sky, observe the same stars, sun, and moon, and yet…we cannot help but to harm others. It must be repulsive for them to see.

“But”—he pauses—"if they are watching, how could they allow all of this? War, famine, and death among countless other cruelties. And even in smaller matters, we act foolishly—misunderstandings, lies, and anger—and all because of our imperfections. What just creator would allow their creations to act as such? Why give us these emotions—these cruel inclinations?

“The world is beautiful—perfect even—but why are we so flawed? Do the gods see us as nothing more than amusements? Or do they feel shame because of our conception? Or perhaps, are we merely forgotten and now cast away?”

Another sigh.

“You most likely don’t know either, Summoner. These are merely my musings, allured by the earth and my own inadequacies.”

Kiran shakes his head in response. He certainly didn’t.

Hríd continues to muse, not quite paying attention to Kiran, “Fjorm…I wish I understood her more. Her behavior was always difficult to make sense of in comparison to Gunnthrá’s and Ylgr’s—always cold despite my best efforts to connect with her.”

He shifts once more before speaking, “But my apologies, Summoner. You most likely did not come here to listen to a fool’s ramblings.”

With that, Hríd’s voice quiets. The gloom whispers around them, and the world continues as it always does—the whistling wind, the howls of the mountain’s wolves, mournful and yearning, and the faint cawing of the night birds.

Alongside the indifferent moon, the stars above gleam, beautiful and unobtainable.

* * *

Gunnthrá appears in his dreams three days later.

Around them, ivory pillars rise, sculpted arms reaching vainly towards the stars above, and below their feet, glasslike slabs line the earth. Despite the near-constant snowfall, the floor is strangely untouched, snow piling around the edges of the platform instead of upon. Reflected in the mirror—for what else would he call it?—the cosmos swirls, vibrant greens meshing with bright blues and pale pinks. At the center of the platform is a raised

“Welcome to Snjárhof, Summoner.”

The same bland smile and the same nonchalance. It infuriates him.

Whether she had noticed his agitation or not, Gunnthrá continues, “I trust your stay at Vida has been peaceful so far? We only have so much time left before Surtr arrives.”

The same tilt of the head, more for appearance than anything else.

“Therefore, as you must understand, our meeting tonight must be short. Make for Snjárhof in a week’s time. It is of utmost importance, an—”

“Do you even care about anything, anyone?”

His voice rises, and he understands the repetitiveness of his question, but he cannot help it. Gunnthrá is obnoxious, too self-assured and too self-righteous. No mistakes and no doubt. She lacks the qualities that define humanity. Emotions—from hope to love to hate to despair—define them, the inheritors of the world below, but it is doubt that refines them, humbles and guides them from the existence of gods.

She is the anomaly that exists—celestial fortitude bottled in mortal shell.

But as always, she has an answer for everything, no matter how plain or succinct.

“Yes”—no nod of the head, only the movement of lips—"my actions will have meaning in the end, once everything comes to fruition.”

She leaves no more room for conversation then, continuing on as she does.

Tilting her head once more, she speaks, “Now, let me continue without interruption. Head for Snjárhof in a week’s time. It is a sanctuary in the western end of Nifl and in relation to Vida, it is directly south of the fortress. There, you will find the key to defeating Surtr—hidden within Breidablik.”

She pauses then, eyes softening briefly for a moment. It is a brief sort of change, too quick to accurately discern as truth or simply a consequence of imagination.

“Please give Hríd and Fjorm my apologies. They will understand why. And…take care, Summoner. Our business will soon finish, and we will part.”

And with that, the chill of the wind whisks Kiran away from the world of dreams.

* * *

He does not speak of Gunnthrá’s final words to either Hríd or Fjorm. Petty perhaps, but he believes that she should speak to them herself. That certainly is how apologies should go.

(It isn’t the truth, not entirely, but it much more noble of a reason than reality. Truth—mixed as it was—is less kind, less gallant.)

However, he does notify them of the information regarding Snjárhof. Hríd’s brow had furrowed then, but Kiran had attributed it to the roundaboutness of Gunnthrá’s request. Snjárhof, from what he could discern in the dream, is an isolated place, even by Nifl’s standards. If a weapon capable of toppling Múspell were to be found anywhere, Kiran would think it be elsewhere.

It made no sense for such a weapon to exist in Nifl. After all, why not use the weapon beforehand?

But, he does not question or argue as Hríd and Anna begin preparations.

He is too tired.

* * *

The day before their departure, Kiran finds himself in the infirmary once more—not for injury but simply for Lucius’s company once more. The concerns in his mind swirl as he sits the chair across from the other man. Between them are a variety of bottles, some half-filled and others full and corked, and herbs—purple crocus, yellow chamomile, among a variety of others. Like a miniature garden, the desk is covered in a variety of plants and baubles.

“What ails you today?”

Kiran looks up, and he almost gives another ambiguous answer—a forced smile and some meaningless one- or two-word answer—but he stops. Should he? They have never quite satisfied anyone, not Lucius and certainly not Kiran. It only serves to remind him

And so, he speaks of the ill dreams, unable to be kept at bay by herbs or some other sort of draught, and the fears that bedevil him: fear of death, fear of tomorrow’s coming, and so forth. Perhaps, he sounds too childish or too much like an idealistic fool; death and sacrifice are the chess pieces—king and pawn or perhaps queen and knight—of war after all. But truly, who would enjoy those sorts of contests?

The chessboard clears, and the world continues on.

(Oh, how small, how objectively pitiful his initial fears were! Rejection and isolation intertwined—but still, they weigh on his mind and tongue, still unsaid. Like lead descending or a false-accused witch, the words sink into his being, never to be heard. It is the disease that crawls inside him.)

The words flow out of him, and he rambles as he used too.

It almost feels like the nights in Askr again, but it is not, it cannot be.

He has changed, and the world remains the same as always.

Tonight, he talks, and Lucius listens, attentive as always.

The world revolves, and his words flow.

Tonight, he feels the comfort of company.

It is enough.

* * *

They end up leaving Seliph, Lewyn, and Ishtar at Vida as a precaution. Because of their army’s depleted numbers, they could not spare more than three Heroes. Because of his previous leadership as an army commander, Seliph is an obvious choice, and as his advisor, Lewyn had been another, but Ishtar had been a volunteer. It is not a disparagement against her skills as a general—she had proven herself more than capable in a number of situations already—but a statement of her action.

There had been concern over potential conflict—they had been enemies before after all—but Ishtar had held a peculiar determination in her eyes when she offered to stay and that had swayed Anna’s decision. Yet, there had been a sadness hidden underneath her resolve, one that Kiran had not quite felt comfortable commenting on.

And thus, under a warm sun, they depart from Vida.

* * *

The path southward is surprisingly easier, relatively lacking in the difficulties of three months earlier. Unsurprising really. The presence of Hríd and his army made things much simpler. There is a strength in numbers, especially when many of the Hríd’s soldiers are experienced in traversing the terrain. This is not to mention to the rejuvenation of their supplies.

A content and full army is more likely to succeed than one impoverished and hungry.

It is simple until it isn’t.

* * *

Calamity approaches with the appearance of the woman from Gnótthæð, perched upon her wyvern as if to imitate Babylon the Great. With her approach, their numbers once again begin to dwindle and their trek begins to slow to a near-halt, a consequence of both Múspell’s traps and the woman’s tenacity. They could not rush for Gunnthrá. If the woman discovered the identity of their destination—Snjárhof—instead of one of the southern fortresses, danger would come for her.

Or perhaps, it wouldn’t. Gunnthrá’s premonitions would potentially allow for her escapes. But, nonetheless, their army would suffer still from the setback, more so than they do now.

The woman—Laegjarn as Fjorm identifies her—acts with a matchless heartlessness and ferocity. Unlike their first meeting with her, she does not proffer an offer for surrender or for escape. Instead, she cuts down soldier after soldier with both blade and magic. Dark flames sprawl from where she strikes with each strike of her sword, and a glow of blue—not quite fire but not quite lightning—surrounds and heralds her before spiraling towards their own troops. With her appearance, ferocity, and the glow of her magic, she is more akin to devil than human.

In each of their battles with her, retreat becomes the objective. Certainly, they could attempt to engage her fully, but it would be waste of time, resources, and lives.

Weeks pass as such, each day a gamble of traps and ambushes as they push toward Snjárhof with Laegjarn and her forces following with each step. On some occasions, they initiate the retreat. On others, Laegjarn withdraws first.

When they arrive just pass the halfway point of their excursion, pandemonium descends.

* * *

Under the dim of the moon’s light, Múspell’s king, Surtr, appears during one of Laegjarn’s assaults.

It had not been particularly hard to spot him or his personal regiment. The man—at least eight feet tall by Kiran’s amateur estimates—towers over his troops. His stature is not particularly helped by his axe either; the weapon is massive, measuring over half of his body’s height. Furthermore, much like Laegjarn’s sword, an ominous flame, encapsulates his weapon.

When Surtr first joins the battle, Kiran does not pay him or his regiment much mind outside of numerical logistics. Certainly, Surtr, by virtue of his position and his known conquests, is an excellent leader, but his regiment’s numbers could not turn the tide of the battle. Even with their addition, the Múspellians would not be able to outnumber their forces or gain a foothold in the current conflict. The Múspellians, because of their reliance towards guerilla warfare, rarely deployed large armies. Even Laegjarn’s initial forces, with their propensity for combining guerilla with direct conflict, is comparatively small in number.

Thus, Surtr’s presence, while disconcerting, is not a chief concern.

It is only when he survives a direct hit from Tharja’s magic unharmed that alarm begins to spread throughout their ranks. Arrows and magic rain upon him, but not one leaves a mark—no wounds, no gashes, or even a simple nick upon his armor.

In comparison, Surtr devastates their forces. Despite his size and the weight of armor, Surtr moves with a practiced and swift ease. Each swing of his axe comes wildly and without finesse; there is no point in calculating his swings’ trajectories when retaliation is not a concern. Arrows plink off his armor, his skin, and even off of normally vulnerable areas like the neck and eyes.

Merric’s wind, Tharja’s hexes, and even the peculiarity of Robin’s spell—dark spikes rushing forward from beneath the earth rather than his normal avian phantasms—do nothing to hinder his progress. When Caeda manages to graze him with her sword, not even a scratch lingers. Instead, he swings at her, flames licking at her pterippus’s hooves as it flees upward and away.

Their troops scramble to avoid his path. It would be foolish to attempt to block one of his blows. Even from a distance, the force of his swing could be felt in the tremors of the earth whenever his axe’s blade made contact with the ground. For those unfortunate or unskilled enough to be caught in his weapon’s path, their bodies, their bones are crushed and visage destroyed. Like a cat’s paw upon an ant, he continues through their ranks.

Shards of bone intermingle with red and dye the snow.

Today, they retreat with heavy losses.

* * *

There isn’t much choice but to split their army into two—one to divert the brunt of the Múspellians’ attention and the other to make for Snjárhof. Surtr and his forces are tenacious, pursuing them with a recklessness characteristic to a bloodthirsty beast. There is no room for rest, and it wears away at both their spirit and body.

And thus, Macha, donning Kiran’s cloak with the hood drawn up, separates with Hríd and the majority of their forces. A smaller group would have an easier time avoiding notice, but a much more difficult time if they were to enter conflict. If all were to go according to plan, they would regroup at Lada, a fortress to the southeast of Snjárhof. It is a risky sort of business, but it a venture they have to take.

The sun’s rays shine upon them, two dots diverging upon a canvas of white.

* * *

The climb to Snjárhof is a difficult one. Kiran isn’t quite sure how Gunnthrá had managed it by herself, but that particular detail, no matter his own curiosity, is superfluous. In this moment, the past would not lend itself to his aid. Instead, it only distracts, and consequently, he clears it from his mind.

Even if his feelings on her are conflicted, it would not bode well for them if he refused her aid just for that.

Around them, the birds—black shadows underneath a brilliant sun—gather, circling. Their bodies are plump, their eyes expectant, and their melody harrowing. They are an omen—a prognostication of life’s equalizer. But still, they cannot stop their ascent towards the summit and towards the unattainable star.

Perhaps it is a foolish endeavor, to persevere on the words of an enigma and without certainty of their future, but they must.

So, they continue upward.

* * *

“My greetings, everyone.”

She sits upon the altar, legs dangling over its edge and hands folded upon her lap. A serene smile etches itself onto her face, and she makes no motion to stand despite their arrival.

“I hope your tri—”

“Gunnthrá,” Fjorm interrupts. Her eyes are narrowed, and her hands are clenched into fists. Leiptr smolders darkly upon her back, agitated by its owner’s emotions.

And in return, Gunnthrá only cocks her head, expression much the same.

Fjorm begins to walk forward, and there is a motion from Alfonse, but Anna stops him, shaking her head.

“Why did you let Nifl fall? And with Hríd as king? Why—”

Her questions continue on with increasing intensity, and Kiran fears for Gunnthrá’s safety. While they are sisters, Fjorm is a volatile woman. He couldn’t quite predict her actions.

“I did not.” Serenity tarnishes Gunnthrá’s face, more doll than human. Like varnish, it coats her face, her expression painted on.

With those words, Gunnthrá moves her hand and retrieves an item from behind her—a simple dagger with a white hilt and a white blade. Much like Breidablik, gold patterns cover its hilt.

“Snjársteinn. The only path in which I could retrieve this”—Gunnthrá’s smile is placid even as Fjorm’s expression changes to one of disbelief—“You understand its meaning and its purpose. Hríd, despite his aptitude, would not know of its significance because of his upbringing. Snjársteinn’s legend is one given to only the priesthood and the royalty.”

“N—” Fjorm’s response is cut off as a rush of wind blows through an area. Kiran feels a pull on the back of his shirt as Robin roughly draws him behind them and away from the front.

Laegjarn. She had approached from the other side of the mountain. With her wyvern and her smaller group, she would have less trouble traversing the mountain’s terrain.

Despite her appearance, Gunnthrá is unflappable, only shifting to stand and with Snjársteinn still in hand.

“I expected you, just as I foresaw everything else.” A simple statement as if one were commenting on the weather rather than adversary.

There is no response from Laegjarn. She only draws her sword from its sheath.

And with that, underneath the setting sun, conflict descends upon Snjárhof.

* * *

In war, there is no difference between the beginning and the end and everything between.

Humans argue—some issues minor and others major, others driven by fear and greed and others still driven by perceived righteousness—and they fight. Boys are sent to war, and the girls left behind in their gardens. Some take up arms, and others send aid from the home front.

But in the end, it is all the same—the same struggles, the same sorrow, and the same justifications.

When the flags come home folded, it is only sorrow that unfurls.

But still, individuality, that is what humans hold to.

War, death, loss.

They are all events, less than blips, upon the tapestry of the world.

But still, it is the idea that one must cling to.

* * *

Magic arcs across the sky—manifested energy in the form of beasts and elements—and weapons clash. Arrows fly, some embedding themselves into the snow and others into flesh. The snarl of wyverns and the cries of pterippi sound. Overhead, the birds circle, no care abound about their neighbors below.

Spiderwebs of fractures spreading, glass cracks as men clad in armor fall. There is no song, no chorus, as the world erupts into flames and noise. Ash descends, and the grunts of men sound. Pleas, muffled by blood and dirt, sound to an unhearing world.

And yet, the world continues to turn, unconcerned with the actions of its residents.

Overhead, the stars shine brightly, and the moon glitters.

* * *

Strike after strike, Fjorm moves with a practiced ease.

Until she doesn’t.

Not a slip, not a mistake in her form, simply luck’s inattention.

And thus, she, startled, feels a push of a hand upon her back, sending her away from the blaze of blue that is Laegjarn’s magic.

Anguish sounds, and the same serene smile as always.

Lips move silently.

“Live well and find happiness,” they say.

The white of Snjársteinn’s hilt remains, willingly embedded into her own chest and into burning flesh.

And with that lingers the words of a selfish human.

* * *

Snjársteinn had been lost in the conflict, or so Fjorm says after the Múspellians flee.

Snjársteinn is a blade that had been used in many of Nifl’s older rituals, ones centered on prosperity and sacrifice. Goats, cattle, chickens. During Nifl’s earliest years under the equinox and the round moons, they, atop the highest points of Nifl, sacrificed to their gods and danced for their entertainment.

They burned the offerings—a mixture of the animals’ fat, hearts, and the tenderloin and the best of the harvest—and feasted upon the leftovers as the smoke rose toward the stars. It had been one of many events that the Niflians celebrated until the invaders came. Only recently—a few hundred years or so—had they returned to the practice and even then, they rarely performed the rituals atop the mountains. Instead, everything had been relegated to the city temples.

However, Snjársteinn itself is a special blade. Unlike others of its nature, it had been a gift from Askr during Nifl’s formulative years, before the invasion and the self-imposed near-isolation. Crafted from one of the scales of the god Askr, it holds a special connection with Breidablik, another of Askr’s gifts to humanity, and with its originator god.

Askr, as Fjorm had explained, is seen as the alter ego of one of many gods rather than duo as in Askr and Embla. There is a sense in worshiping him. With Snjársteinn, communication could be through prayer as the smoke rose. That is the old belief.

However, there is cruelty balanced with beauty and kindness. For a god to take pity upon humanity, something of equal worth must be exchanged.

Life and devotion.

That is what true gods demand.

Without fear, without death, why would humanity call to those living above?

And thus, Snjársteinn is a blade of sacrifice—of both beast and of human.

That is how Fjorm describes the now lost weapon.

“It is an old wives’ tale,” she says, “I did not think it actually…existed or that Gunnthrá would be foolish enough to believe it.”

Confliction is in her voice, but there is no trace of sadness.

Fjorm is a complicated woman.

The remains of Gunnthrá’s amulet dangles next to hers.

* * *

Lada is a parody of hell when they arrive.

No devil or angel, only men and their orders and ambitions.

The smoke obscures the sky, and the screeches of wyvern and men alike fill the air. Like spring’s blossoms, arrows fly and flutter downward in volleys from the battlements and onto the soldiers below. From the crenels, hot oil flows like cascades. Flashes of color form, miniature suns and imitation cosmoses, as mages cast their spells, some aimed for those below and others for those above.

Wind streaks, not called by the Anemoi but by mortal men, and slices through draconic scale and leathery wings. Even if it were not a killing blow, hundreds of pounds of plummeting beast would scatter or injure those unfortunate enough to be in its path.

Like an apple falling from a tree, they plummet.

That is the scene, the mortal rendition of Pandemonium, they arrive to.

* * *

The gate is eventually breached.

Kiran isn’t quite sure of the cause—despite his time in Zenith so far, he is not a master tactician capable of monitoring the entire field—but it does not matter the reason. Instead, only the outcome matters.

Like ants, the adversaries crawl into Lada, weapons held aloft and beasts baying, and his fellows follow.

And with them, Kiran marches.

There isn’t much other choice.

* * *

The interior of Lada is just as chaotic, if not more so, than the outside. Tight stone corridors, stacks of crates, and hurriedly discarded materials—pots, pans, and shattered porcelain—make for a treacherous arena.

The glass crunches underneath his bots as he follows after Lucius and Alfonse. While Lada is a less than stellar area in terms of safety, it is better for Kiran to follow along than to remain outside. With the size of Múspell’s current forces, it would be foolish to have Kiran and those assigned to him remain far away. To split the forces now would lessen their chance for victory. Furthermore, there is no guarantee that a band of enemies or even a simple sniper would not target him. In a conflict—or rather a decisive battle—such as this, all forces would be needed for mobilization.

To lose Lada—and by extension, Hríd and his forces—would be a near-unsalvageable loss for the Order.

And so, Kiran, with Lucius beside him, hurries after Alfonse and Fjorm and deeper into Lada in search of Hríd. While there is no guarantee of Hríd’s presence or of his survival, they cannot retreat. Their morals and their own standing in Nifl depend on victory.

A Múspellian rushes at them, but a crackling spear—wisps of black floating before dissipating—impales him, cauterizing the wound upon impact. Even as the body slumps, face mangled beyond recognition, Robin makes no sign of acknowledge, of them or of the body. With fingers alight, he only continues to his next destination on their makeshift battlefield.

As they delve deeper into Lada, they find much the same.

Men and women torn asunder by blade and magic, discarded and broken weaponry, and no sign of Hríd.

But still, they continue deeper, commotion heightening with each step.

* * *

A snarl—inhuman and deep—resounds, and then crack of splintering mahogany.

That is what leads them to Hríd’s location—the great hall.

Upturned chairs, shattered tables, and broken windows—shards scattered upon the torn carpet and fractured wood.

And Hríd, face bloodied, facing Surtr.

* * *

Kiran would like to say that he acted rationally and calmly, that he acted with finesse or even simply heroic valor.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, the world blurs, a cacophony of motion as Fjorm and Alfonse move, weapons readied. From beside Kiran, Lucius supports them with his magic through healing and distraction. While magic could not harm Surtr, his eyes are just as susceptible to light, or rather an excess of it, as anyone else’s.

No valiant display, no heroism, nothing.

But certainly, what could he do? He is not a skilled fighter nor does he hold any sort of hidden ability.

Instead, he can only watch.

Voyeuristic but incapable of anything else, too reliant on others.

* * *

Scurrying beasts, wounded and baring fangs. That is what they are at their core.

Worry, fear, dread, and desire. Those are the concepts that inundate their being.

Even in his role as an observer, Kiran is no different.

* * *

Breidablik.

Gunnthrá had not quite explained what she meant when she linked Breidablik to Surtr’s defeat, but surely, what could it do? It only seemed to activate when near an altar; he had tried elsewhere, and simply, there had been no response—no telltale star or light.

But still, her words and her actions linger in his mind.

And so, he takes aim at Surtr, and to his excitement, the weapon glows a bright white.

Alerted by the light, Surtr turns but by then, it is too late.

Kiran fires.

And he misses.

* * *

Desire and success are two different matters. The desire for a certain outcome did not necessarily mean one could achieve it. A sense of panic fills Kiran as Surtr starts toward them, his axe clenched tightly and face decorated with a sneer at Kiran’s failure.

Surtr ignores Alfonse’s attempts to regain his attention, and with his free hand, knocks Fjorm away and into the wall. Hríd isn’t much use either. With his earlier injuries, he, unlike his uninjured self, would be unable to reach Kiran and Lucius in time.

Kiran feels a rough shove towards the doorway as Lucius then places himself in Surtr’s path. Despite his weak constitution, Lucius is not a feebleminded man. However, even with his skill in magic, Kiran doubts that he would be able to survive Surtr’s assault.

But the command is simple as it is uttered from his lips.

“Go.”

* * *

Perhaps if he were still the person he was at the beginning of his time in Zenith, he would have left—a mixture of fear and idealism. Because surely, he, with his quick wits and their trust, would be able to find an ally to return with in time. There would have been no true understanding of the gravity of the situation—the desperation and despair that would have to result for the Order to let a technical noncombatant leave on his lonesome.

But, he does now, and so he stays despite the shouts and Surtr’s lumbering form.

It is not courage but simply a human’s desire to survive.

If he were to leave and Lada were to fall, what would happen to him?

* * *

It isn’t quite like a cartoon or some olden tale. He doesn’t gain some sort of magical (or physical) ability to oppose Surtr and his years of experience.

Instead, it is a mad scramble as Kiran, Breidablik clenched tightly in hand, rushes around the room and over the debris. It is a situation that only exists because of everyone else’s intervention and their attempts to divert Surtr’s attention. Otherwise, Kiran has no doubt that he would already be a smear upon the floor. Even with his personal growth in Zenith, he isn’t particularly physically inclined.

But, it cannot go on forever. Everyone tires, and luck eventually runs out. Even Alfonse with his resilience and Lucius with his miraculous luck would fall eventually if their current situation were to not change.

And yet, salvation does come from above, not from the heavens nor from some other celestial source, but in the form of coincidence.

* * *

When Surtr swings once more, hitting the spot where Lucius was mere seconds ago, the force of his blow shakes the hall, and the chandelier falls upon him.

Even with the combined weight of solid bronze and hundreds of candles and glass droplets, Surtr does not flinch when the chandelier makes contact with his head. Like a mosquito’s bite, it only serves to annoy him.

However, the incident allows for Lucius to act. Rather than merely focusing on evading Surtr’s blows and on Kiran’s safety, Lucius, with a surge of his magic, casts a spell—a blinding flash of scarlet light—directly into Surtr’s face. It does not harm him naturally, but it blinds the man temporarily and stills his wild swings.

And to Kiran, they urge him to fire again.

He does.

And this time, he does not miss.

* * *

A swell of panic erupts when Surtr remains much the same.

Was Breidablik not supposed to defeat him? Certainly, that is what Gunnthrá claimed.

But then, coming from the doorway, an arrow whizzes by, scratching Surtr’s cheek.

When a droplet of blood forms, relief settles in.

Even if exhaustion had set in, the possibility of hope drives them forward.

* * *

It isn’t quite an anticlimactic fight, but it isn’t a world-shattering fight either.

Without his otherworldly protection, Surtr fights as a man rather than as a force of nature. Rather than with wild abandon, he fights with a calculated steadiness.

But still, as he is now, Surtr, despite his massiveness and strength, is only a man.

And all men tire eventually.

In the end, the war horn sounds, announcing victory.

* * *

Askr sits over the negotiations concerning Nifl and Múspell.

Kiran doesn’t quite pay as much attention as she should, but his presence is more of a formality than anything really. What use would he have in the political dealings of the three powers? Certainly, he has studied tactics, but those didn’t fully translate to the political field.

However, he does catch bits and pieces as Hríd and Laegjarn, now acting ruler of Múspell, converse.

Trade dealings, political and wartime prisoners, and so forth.

He even sees the return of Ylgr by a fairly burly man with a scowl and crooked teeth. Though strangely, Ylgr seems saddened when he leaves to return to Laegjarn’s side. But nonetheless, their negotiations go rather well, all things considering. Laegjarn isn’t quite as inclined towards violence as Surtr.

Eventually, an agreement is drafted and signed.

All is well.

Or at least, that is how it should be.

* * *

Hours before their return to Askr, Kiran remembers Gunnthrá’s request.

He finds Fjorm first. Despite her insistence on keeping Gunnthrá’s amulet, her response is surprisingly blasé and even bitter at times. Her appearance has not changed much despite her promotion by Hríd to advisor. Her armor and cloak remain much the same, tinged with the vestige of war.

She is a strange woman, but Kiran has never claimed to understand her in her entirety.

In comparison, Hríd’s response is solemn.

“I should have expected that would be her plan. She always was three steps ahead,” he says, “but my thanks, Summoner. Your message is appreciated.”

It is an awkward affair, but he completes her request.

* * *

The road to Askr is long, monotonous at points even. Without Múspell’s interference, contemplation, not chatter, becomes their pastime.

How could one jest so soon after their experience? That is the problem. Certainly, there is an air of expectation—someone would have to be the first eventually—but no one wants to take the leap.

(He expects Robin to be the first, but the other man is surprisingly mild and lacking in his normal venom during their trip. Even jesters comprehend the circumstances, he supposes.)

The road back is riddled with silence

* * *

Kiran is not quite sure why he does it—his previous self would have balked—but he does.

In the gardens and by the frozen waters, he asks to the tune of his drumming heart.

Thankfully, Lucius, smiling, accepts

Strange, how simple the world could be.

His fears still exist, but for now, they dwindle.

* * *

Today, fingers gently caress his hair, loosening and untangling the knots.

It isn’t a particularly remarkable action—intimate for some perhaps—but still, it is simple by most accounts. It isn’t a grand gesture of love or devotion, but it is enough.

Beneath them, the canvas, still hidden, remains, blank and unworked upon. He has not abandoned the endeavor of course, but time, rather than brute-force creativity, will give him the inspiration. Until then, he waits.

It is a simple sort of moment, neither grand nor trivial, but still, warmth fills him.

However, the question of home remains, but still, he knows the answer. Or rather, the possibility and the consequence.

To follow is a fool’s errand, but it is one he willing to follow. Perhaps it is selfish, but he will.

Death is a certainty if he does, but still, he knows both of their answers.

Selfish perhaps, but it is as it is.

The world around them turns, inhaling and exhaling.

Today, it is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where's Loki? She's been here for quite a while (since the early chapters) in this work. Perhaps not named, but she has. Much like everyone else, she's working overtime in the background while Kiran remains ignorant/hyper-focused.  
> I actually had a variety of endings for this. Some ended with meeting Hel, and others with a sizable time skip with the implications that this is Líf's failed timeline. I ended up dropping them since it went against some of the themes (though you can consider this a "successful" Líf timeline if you wish).  
> I do think the ending can be considered bittersweet considering what eventually happens in the Elibe games, but it is what it is. Perhaps it looks like a failure on Kiran's part to not return home or perhaps it is a triumph and a beginning of his own independence, I do not mind either way which interpretation is taken. Additionally, some of the warfare in the Nifl chapters is based on actual Guerrilla warfare tactics (primarily Vietnam War) but transplanted (somewhat) clumsily though some of it is actual fantasy warfare like with Nifl's.  
> Though on the canvas, it much like everything else, has a symbolic nature. Similarly, the concept of Kiran's room and how it is never entered by anyone (gazed into perhaps but never entered explicitly) does as well. And the numbers of this work have a bit of numerical symbolism. Chapter count and how many days it took to post. They're all multiples of three (9 chapters and 27 days to post). The length (in section length and chapter length) is purposeful at points well with how long or short it is. I do believe the final ending sections are a bit short, but there is a purpose for that as well.  
> I did plan to have the pair only come to fruition in the end since I'm not particularly fond of romance in most fanfiction (strange considering this massive piece I think). Furthermore, I do not think Kiran, as a character, was "ready" for romance in any way considering his showing before the latter half of this fic (what with all the preconceptions and notions he had). In part, the ending could be seen as a "beginning" in some senses as a result. Hopefully, this at least lives up to the slowburn tag in some sense.  
> As another aside, there are no intentional similarities with FE3H since I noticed all three of the Nifl siblings featured have some shared trait or another with the three lords. It ended up as it did because I thought it'd be interesting.  
> And as a second-to-last comment, I think my favorite in this was actually either Gunnthrá+Hríd (together because their stories are rather tied together for me) or Robin. Granted, I did build them up in my drafts. Perhaps, I'll do a prequel (sequel?) with the former in epistolary novel format or another fic with the latter one day. I still have my other projects to do.  
> Anyways, thank you if you've read this far. I don't find this work particularly well-written, and it can be trimmed at points, but it is (was?) a passion project I did for fun.

**Author's Note:**

> Please forgive any anachronism in this fic now and later. Zenith's world is not particularly well-rounded in comparison to some of the other FE worlds, so I did take liberties.
> 
> In this work, I wanted to play a bit with Poe's idea of totality, though not completely as this isn't a short story but the basic principles, and with Hemingway's "Iceberg Principle." Alongside that, I wanted to play with some other literary concepts, motifs, grammar (both the following of and the breaking of grammar rules), and all that. There are a lot of things at play in this fic I think. 
> 
> Thus, not everything is as it seems, and this ties into everything—style, literary devices, and so forth. Furthermore, Kiran is written, especially in the first few chapters, as an unreliable narrator. While I would prefer not to disclose that under normal circumstances, I feel as if I need to state that as it's not quite obvious at times (partially because this is a fanfic and that's generally not the first thing you think of when it comes to these sorts of works unless it's tagged).
> 
> However, ultimately, this is a bit of a love letter to the series as it has been a series that I've adored for awhile (played all of them except for 1, 2, and 3; did play the remakes though). Though, there is no Three Houses or mentions of it because this was planned all before release, and I feel as if Kiran summoning the students pre-time skip ruins their own arcs and interactions to an extent. Why would any of them feel stunned at the brutality of war if they were conscripted into some other world's war earlier and then sent back?
> 
> I do focus more on the 3Ds and Archanea cast because of well, bias and the fact that it's easier to pull their information online than replaying decades old games for one support.
> 
> And why Lucius? He is my Summoner Support in FEH (and fully built with expensive skills and +10 flowers), one of my favorites from the series, and he is very cute. But on a more serious note, his character and concept is the one that meshed the most with the idea of Kiran that I want. That was the determining factor on why I kept the pairing.
> 
> As a side note, every chapter title (and the title itself) references something. Additionally, the style will eventually become much more..."flowery" and referential (the literary allusion tag) if that is not to taste.


End file.
